by John Marrs
Stuart was all too aware there was more to life than minimum-wage employment and living in a house where he shared a basic kitchenette with a seven-strong Somalian family and a friendly Russian couple who appeared to have a never-ending supply of British passports in plastic folders on the communal table. Sometimes when his hotel shift came to an end, he’d study for his Open University travel and tourism course at a table in the corner of the hotel restaurant while furtively watching families dine together.
So when Geri offered to open up a new world to him, one so far removed from his own it might as well have been located on a different planet, he grabbed it with both hands. Fame was something he neither craved nor needed, but Geri had the measure of him.
‘See this as a means to an end,’ she explained. ‘It won’t last forever because boy bands never do. Just ride the wave for long enough and you’ll be set for the rest of your life.’
What she didn’t inform Stuart was how much she enjoyed having the power to change a person’s life on a whim. She cherished it all the more knowing that she could bring it to an end just as sharply.
With Stuart on board, Geri had a complete, marketable, boy band ready to roll off the Star People conveyor belt and straight into the television live shows. Four reasonably talented lads whose music teenage girls would download and whose merchandise they’d pay over the odds for, plus a beautiful lead singer with a sob story everyone would lap up.
Geri’s puppets did what they were told, obeyed the clauses in their lengthy contract about not bringing their brand into disrepute and discreetly bed-hopped with other girl groups and reality TV stars behind closed doors.
When the cameras were on them, Lightning Strikes were the best of friends, larking about and referring to each other in interviews as brothers. But behind closed doors, Stuart barely spent any time with them when they weren’t working. He was quietly envious of their families, their closeness and their freedom to be who they were, while they were green-eyed over him being the focus of fans and journalists alike.
As hard as he’d tried, there was little Stuart could do to fend off Geri’s frequent sexual advances. She only ever required one of two things – to either give him oral sex or to masturbate him, and never in the confines of a bedroom. Instead, it would occur when Stuart least expected it, like in the back of a limousine, a TV show dressing room, a hotel restaurant and even once in an empty recording studio sound booth. Stuart never climaxed and Geri didn’t seem bothered. She never asked for penetrative sex or for Stuart to pleasure her, a small mercy he was grateful for. It was, he decided, just another way in which Geri let him know who was boss.
‘Don’t forget, I know your secrets,’ she’d warned him when he attempted to refuse a blow job.
‘Not all of them,’ he thought.
‘So don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ she continued, before placing his dick back inside the gift horse’s mouth.
CHAPTER 7
TODAY
By the time a bruised time Savannah finished her solo pity party in the bathroom, she unlocked the door to find the bedroom empty.
A clear plastic bag containing cotton wool buds, a bottle of witch hazel and a packet of antiseptic wipes had been left on her duvet by Jane. Savannah cautiously checked under her pillow to make sure her gun was still in place, then scooped up the medicines and applied them to her grazes.
The stress of the day made her stomach ache, so she lay on her side and faced Jane’s bed. But as she struggled to relax, curiosity got the better of her and she decided to snoop on her new roommate. Savannah approached Jane’s side of the room and sniffed a lavender candle in its glass jar on a bedside table. Then when she noticed Jane’s suitcase was unlocked, after a cautious glance over her shoulder, she casually opened the lid to find Jane’s neatly folded clothes and collection of travel books.
The sound of the door’s squeaking hinges startled her.
‘I was . . . just putting your stuff back,’ Savannah blurted out, looking at Jane and realising she didn’t actually have anything in her hands.
‘Oh, I don’t mind, have a nose around, my dear, I’ve got nothing to hide,’ Jane replied with a warm smile. ‘How’s the swelling?’
‘A little better. Thanks for the antiseptic and stuff . . . and I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.’
‘Don’t you worry about it,’ assured Jane. ‘So what happened to you?’
‘Some assholes were pissed because I don’t do “extras”.’
‘I’m guessing you don’t work in an office.’
‘Hardly. I’m a stripper.’
‘Well good on you, but no job is worth being beaten up over.’
‘Look, I appreciate your concern, but I can look after myself.’
‘Okay, darling, but just in case, I keep my medicine box under my bed, so just help yourself if you ever need it again.’
Savannah offered a half-baked smile, and then returned to her bed.
‘Have you got anything on tomorrow?’ asked Jane. ‘I was going to catch the bus up to Santa Monica and have a wander round the farmers’ market. I could use some company and you’re the only person here I’ve spoken to so far.’
‘I don’t think it’s really my thing. The farmers’ market, I mean, not talking to you.’
‘I knew what you meant. Anyway, you can’t go back to work till that swelling goes down, so shall we say about nine?’
Savannah didn’t have the energy to argue, so she nodded her head and quietly wondered what Jane’s ulterior motive was.
CHAPTER 8
The two decommissioned dormitory rooms Tommy found himself in had been amateurishly knocked into one large, open-plan space, leaving jagged plasterboard edges and exposed brickwork.
But it wasn’t the rooms, or the portable lighting rigs throwing out immense heat from their bulbs that grabbed his attention. That honour went to what lay beneath them.
Inside two dozen garden growbags perched on old mattresses were at least 150 cannabis plants of varying heights. The surrounding walls were chock-full of holes with plastic pipes jammed into them for ventilation. Wires and plugs hung from missing ceiling tiles, and black bin bags had been taped to some windows while blackout blinds hung from others to keep out prying eyes. Windowsills below them pooled with condensation.
Like the plants, Tommy remained rooted to the spot, unable to formulate a sentence. He could already feel the sweat from under his arms starting to trickle down his sides. He turned his head towards Peyk, who was standing in just his brightly coloured underwear.
‘I see you’ve come dressed for the occasion,’ said Peyk, pointing towards Tommy’s towel.
‘I just . . . I just wanted some hot water for my shower,’ he whispered, before finding his voice. ‘What the fuck? You actually have a cannabis farm in the middle of the hostel?’
‘Well, it’s nice of you to call it a farm, but we’re not there just yet,’ Peyk replied proudly. ‘But give us a couple of months and we’ll reach our goal.’
‘It’s like Breaking Bad in here.’
‘Let’s not exaggerate, Tommy-boy, we’re not cooking crystal meth, it’s just a bit of weed.’
‘A bit? It’s a shitload! Look at how many plants you’ve got in here.’
‘It’s a good start.’
‘A start? You want to grow even more?’
‘Of course. There’s no point in half measures, is there?’
‘But why?’
‘To make money and keep a roof over your head,’ began Ron quietly as Peyk returned to work, carefully trimming leaves from one of the taller plants with household scissors.
‘The hostel isn’t worth going to prison over,’ Tommy felt the need to point out.
‘I think it is,’ replied Ron. ‘When I came to Venice Beach and took on this old place, I didn’t appreciate how much it’d cost to maintain or to run. And if I can’t find a way of covering the bills, I’ll have to close the doors.’
‘But we’re almost
always full, so surely you must make some money?’
‘Only because we’re cheap – anything we earn barely covers the overheads. If I charge more, you guys will stay somewhere better. And I have to make regular payments to a city official who turns a blind eye to this place because it’s nowhere near to being up to code.’
‘And this is why you keep falling through ceilings,’ Tommy said, looking towards Peyk.
‘Yep, as we started to make a little money from the pot, I began replacing the old wiring so we could get more lighting rigs in here. It’s not just the people staying here who are in a transition – it’s the building, too.’
‘I approached Joe’s friend Wayne to test the market and sell some of our product,’ continued Ron, scratching his head, ‘and so far he’s had a positive response. So we need to up our production, but that takes time. These plants need twelve hours of light a day, and that’s a whole heap of electricity.’
‘If you don’t do this, how much longer does the hostel have left?’
‘About two months; three if we’re lucky. Wayne’s a one-man operation, and he can’t sell much weed on his own.’
Tommy took a deep breath and another look at his surroundings. He was all too aware of how illegal the activity in that room was, and in ordinary circumstances, he’d have run a mile. But this was no ordinary life he was leading, and the thought of the hostel closing panicked him much more than it being raided by the police. He possessed no working visa, so even post-recession, he’d find it hard to pick up cash-in-hand work –selling hotdogs for a living wouldn’t be enough to support him.
Tommy felt safe there, which he knew was illogical, given the circumstances in which he’d arrived that first night. He’d made friends and created himself a little universe – albeit a temporary one. If the hostel shut, the only viable option would be to arrange a return date for his open plane ticket and head home. And he certainly wasn’t ready for that.
Tommy recalled what Richard, the protagonist in The Beach, the novel that had inspired his travels, had done in not-that-dissimilar circumstances, and it wasn’t a happy ever after ending for him. But that was just a story, thought Tommy, as he stood facing his crossroads.
There were two directions he could take – the first was to fall back on his default setting and walk away when a situation became awkward. The second was to slip out of character and step up to the mark.
‘I can help you,’ he said finally, and folded his arms defiantly.
CHAPTER 9
Twilight had begun to make its presence felt when Zak Stanley’s run slowed to a walk as he approached his home.
The first thing he noticed was ‘the shape’, now standing by his gate. Despite the failing light he could see its eyes were wide open, its lips were apart and it was motionless, gawping at him. Having a stranger so close to his house made Zak uncomfortable; he’d been victim to several stalkers before, but legal action from an army of retained lawyers had been the most successful way of combating even the more resolute ones. However this one looked harmless – stupid, even.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked sternly, pulling his headphones from his ears.
Ruth’s mouth was dry but she couldn’t swallow. Zak Stanley had just spoken to her. Zak Stanley! If she could have pressed pause on any moment of her life, it would no longer have been when she still had her father at home, it would’ve been right then.
‘Well?’ Zak asked again, but when Ruth didn’t reply, he decided he was wasting his time. He wanted to cool down in his pool before his party began later that night.
Ruth made imperceptible adjustments to her hair as Zak pushed a button on a thumb-sized remote control for his gates to open, when she suddenly burst into life.
‘I’m a really big fan,’ she blurted out loudly, making him jump.
‘So?’
Ruth didn’t sense the animosity in his abrupt reply. ‘I’ve come from Australia to see you,’ she continued.
Zak eyed her up and down again, quietly loathing fans who believed that paying to see one of his films meant they were entitled to a piece of him. He hated them.
‘I won a competition to meet you. I went to the restaurant but you weren’t there.’
‘Well someone’s screwing with you because Zak doesn’t do meet and greets.’
‘Oh.’
‘So why are you still here?’
‘Um,’ Ruth hesitated, unsure of how to continue before a light bulb flashed in her brain. ‘I’ve made you something!’
Ruth dove into her handbag and fumbled around for the jumper she’d spent a week carefully crafting. But by the time she held it up to show Zak, he’d disappeared behind the closing gate.
CHAPTER 10
DAY NINE
‘Hot dogs and a lemonade, just one dollar,’ echoed Tommy’s voice through the megaphone in his best Queen’s English.
An influx of tourists at a music festival further down the promenade made for a busy day on the beach and an improved footfall for Tommy and José’s hotdog stand. Word of mouth about Tommy’s latest addition to the menu had already begun to spread, and Tommy had socialised with enough people from different walks of life to predict by appearance alone those who might want to sample his smokable wares and those he should hide his product from. He ensured the two middle-aged women behind the shirtless frat boys he was serving weren’t watching or listening when he spoke.
‘Can I interest you in the chef’s special?’ he asked in nervous, hushed tones after handing them their hotdogs. Then he slipped his hand inside his uniform and removed a small sachet of pot from his shorts to show them.
‘Shit yeah!’ they replied.
‘Go and see my friend behind the stand and he’ll sort you out,’ Tommy replied, pointing to the José in the mobile food trailer behind them. José was grateful for a cut of both the cash and the product in return.
And Tommy couldn’t help but grin at the rush of adrenaline his first foray into illegal activity gave him.
CHAPTER 11
The sand’s uneven surface made it impossible to predict which direction the football might travel after being kicked.
But it didn’t prevent the dozen under ten-year-old boys and girls from trying to gain control of it from Matty and Declan and scoring. Their parents sat nearby under sunshades as Matty and Declan entertained the kids, teaching them how to tackle and allowing them the occasional penalty.
Their beach soccer school wasn’t going to make Matty and Declan rich, but it was earning them $15 per head per half day and they enjoyed teaching the eager youngsters the skills they’d need to make an impression on the pitch. And occasionally they’d deliver embellished anecdotes about how they’d been trained by David Beckham and had given up promising apprenticeships at Manchester United to go travelling. Today, Declan was the more enthusiastic of the two, though, and he couldn’t help but notice Matty flagging.
‘Time out, guys,’ he called, scooping the ball up into his arms. ‘Go and see your folks and rehydrate.’
‘Are you alright, fella?’ Declan asked as the children scampered back towards their parents.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m just sweating cobs though. The sun’s got to me a bit today.’
‘I’ll get you a drink. Replace your electrolytes and all that.’
‘Don’t fuss, I’m okay.’
‘Or I’ll get you a Coke if you want?’
‘Dec, give me a break!’ snapped Matty. ‘I said I’m okay, right?’
As Matty trudged across the sand towards the boardwalk in search of shade, Declan followed him anyway, just to be sure.
THIRTEEN MONTHS EARLIER – DUNDALK, IRELAND
Dogs’ eyes on a dozen painted plates hanging from the walls seemed to watch Declan as intently as Matty did, counting the heap of stolen euros on the kitchen table.
‘That’s €12,276 in total, pretty good for a first try,’ announcd Declan proudly. He leaned back on his chair and stretched his arms above his head – their haul was greate
r than either had anticipated.
‘First and only try,’ added Matty.
‘That’s what I meant. It’s enough to pay for two seats in Upper Economy to Ibiza and two InterRail tickets, plus spending money for everywhere else we want to go.’
‘We need to be sensible though, we don’t know how long it has to last.’
They were suddenly interrupted by the creaking hinges of a porch door. Declan darted to the other side of the kitchen, grabbed a handful of tea towels and threw them at Matty, who in turn covered the cash as his mother appeared, weighed down by two bags of food shopping.
‘Can I give you a hand, Mrs O’Keefe?’ began a flustered Declan.
‘No, it’s fine, lads,’ she replied. ‘What’s going on in here? Why do you two look so guilty?
‘What are you on about, Mammy, we’re just sitting here talking,’ replied Matty in a forced, jovial tone. Matty and Declan looked at each other behind Mrs O’Keefe’s back while she placed her bags on the kitchen work surface.
‘You two, just talking? Now I know you’re guilty of something. Are you staying for dinner, Declan?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Sure it’s no trouble. Just move that pile of money you’re hiding under my tea towels and set the table.’
Matty and Declan glared at each other again, neither knowing how to respond. So they scooped the money back into their duffel bags and Matty hurried upstairs with them. Before Declan could follow, Mrs O’Keefe held his arm and looked him straight in the eye.
‘Promise me, Declan, you’ll look after my boy. Please promise me that.’
Declan nodded. ‘You know I will.’
Mrs O’Keefe appeared convinced of Declan’s sincerity and removed her hand. ‘Good lad, I just needed to hear you say it,’ she added, and patted him on the shoulder.
