by Shari King
18.
‘Nothing’ – The Script
On the scale of disturbing experiences, this night had been somewhere between the time Zander had left Elton John’s Oscar party, spent three hours in a nightclub snorting coke from the cleavage of a supermodel and then wrapped his Aston Martin round a lamp post on Beverly Drive, and the time he spent the night in LA County after the altercation with the reality-TV tosser. And he couldn’t even remember that prick’s name.
‘How did you find me?’ he’d asked as she’d strutted past him into his apartment, arrogance exploding from every pore, only the fact that she couldn’t walk in a straight line giving her a layer of vulnerability.
‘I’m Mirren McLean’s daughter. There’s nothing I can’t find out.’ Her slur was barely decipherable. There was no arguing with her logic, though. It would only take one call to a publicist, who’d call another publicist, who’d call a secretary in an agency, who’d call a friend who worked at a car service, and the address would be delivered via text in minutes.
It was difficult to say whether Chloe plumped down onto the sofa or her legs gave way and it was just good fortune that there was a soft landing. Her skin was grey, her eyes barely open. Life Reborn might want to consider their strike rate. So far, in this room alone, they were zero for two.
Zander had closed the door, headed to the kitchen and grabbed a basin from under the sink. Hollie had put it there after she’d replaced the rug in the bedroom for the third time. Chloe had barely noticed when he’d slipped it in front of her.
‘Hey, Zander Leith,’ she purred. ‘Zander Leith. Za-n-der Leith.’
Each syllable of his name was more protracted with each repetition. This seemed to amuse her. Difficult to believe that this was the eighteen-year-old daughter of one of the most important power couples in the industry. Spielbergs. Hanks. Gores.
Now she was sitting here, in denim cut-offs, Diesel boots and a white vest that fell off one pale white shoulder, looking like she was twelve.
Still he added nothing to the conversation.
‘So tell me, Za-n-der Leith, what’s the story?’
‘The story?’
‘About my mother. I hate her, y’know. So perfect. She’s so fricking perfect. She took everything away from me. Do you know that? Fucking everything.’
Zander closed his eyes. Never had he needed a drink more than now. He reached over to the unit under the TV, pulled out a stack of screeners from the bottom shelf and liberated a bottle of Southern Comfort that was hidden behind them.
‘C’mon, Chloe . . .’ He sat on the coffee table in front of her, ready to catch her if she fell forward.
‘Hey, you know my name,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Zander Leith knows my name.’
Her gesticulating hand landed on his thigh, then teasingly crept towards his crotch.
He removed it.
‘Doncha wanna fuck me?’ she slurred, a childish lilt creeping into her voice, followed by a mischievous snigger as she pulled her top over her head, exposing her small, pert, tanned breasts.
‘Chloe, put that back on. Now.’ He was on his feet. Pacing. Face turned away. ‘Please, come on. Put your vest back on.’ Jesus, this was excruciating. He turned to see if she’d complied, just as she licked her left index finger and rolled it round one nipple.
‘Chloe, come on. Stop.’ He winced.
The old, stoned Zander would never knowingly pass up a sexual encounter with a half-naked female who was making it clear she wanted him, but this was different. So different it hurt somewhere deep down in his guts.
She was Mirren McLean’s daughter. She had no idea what had happened between him and her mother. She could never know. What they’d had belonged in the past and—
‘So did you fuck her, then?’ Chloe interrupted his panic. ‘My mother. Did you fuck her?’
Taking a slug of Southern Comfort saved him from answering. God bless the bottle.
‘Did you?’ Chloe repeated. ‘I think you did. She won’t watch a movie if you’re in it. I think you fucked her.’ Another giggle.
He had nothing. Nothing to say, nowhere to go with this.
This was pain. Gut-wrenching pain.
How hard had he worked to forget? How many years had he blocked it out, denied it? And now it was back. There were so many thoughts in his head that the trauma, not the Southern Comfort, had taken his speech.
The sensible thing would be to get her out of here. How could he ever explain her being here to Mirren? Would she believe him? After everything?
Even if he wanted to tell her mother, he didn’t have Mirren’s number, and calling Life Reborn was out of the question. Her detention was court-ordered, and if she’d blown that off, he wasn’t going to be the one to turn her in.
But he couldn’t let her stay here. Anyone could have seen her come in. There could be a crowd of paps outside right now timing their meeting, waiting to catch a walk-of-shame shot when they left the next morning. Or there could be one on the beach with a long lens. That one took a minute to percolate before he jumped up, closed the balcony door and pressed the button that made the windows opaque.
Then he grabbed a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her topless torso. She was too wasted to complain.
‘Chloe, is there somewhere you can go?’
‘Not goin’ back.’
‘I know. But the cops will come for you if you don’t.’
‘Nooooo.’ It was almost animalistic. ‘Not going back there. Hate them all.’
He drained his glass. Southern Comfort wasn’t going to solve this, but it couldn’t make it any worse.
Just at that moment, she lurched forward and Zander grabbed the bucket. Not a scene he’d ever anticipated dealing with. He was one of the biggest box-office stars in the world and he was here, at night, with a half-naked girl, fully expecting to be vomited on at any second.
There must have been some seriously scary shit decisions to get him to this point in his life.
‘Need to pee.’
Oh Christ.
He helped her up, supported her to the bathroom and then guided her in. Etiquette? He had no idea, so backing out and closing the door seemed like the best option.
The thought of calling Hollie crossed his mind, but he knew exactly what she’d do. She’d call the cops, have Chloe taken back to rehab and then give him a lecture about the ramifications of letting wasted teenage socialites into his apartment late at night.
How long had she been in there? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
‘Chloe?’
No answer.
‘Chloe?’
Nothing. Damn. Tentative, dreading what he’d find, he pushed open the door. There she was, passed out, still breathing. He checked again. Definitely still breathing.
As far as he could see, he was out of options. He lifted her up, carried her over to the bed, covered her with a blanket. It was difficult to tell if it was the situation, the Southern Comfort or the flashback that made him queasy. Mirren. Around the same age. Sleeping on his bed. There was a party in his house. His dad had got out of prison that day and invited all his mates round for the usual freedom ceremony. Police had come to the door a couple of times to tell them to keep the noise down, but it didn’t make a difference. The celebrations had gone on long into the night and . . . No. Not now. Hadn’t he already decided this wasn’t the time for memories?
The shutters came down on the past, and his hands started to shake. The inside of his skull started banging, so he went back into the other room. He lay on the sofa, then checked every twenty minutes to make sure she hadn’t choked on her own vomit.
That was one headline he never wanted to read: ‘Chloe Gore Found Dead in Zander Leith’s Apartment’. The very thought made him shudder.
When the darkness behind the opaque windows became a shade lighter, Zander knew sunrise was close. He also knew he was only left with two choices.
He took another shot of the Southern Comfort and the rest o
f it was sitting on the table in front of him, calling his name. That was option one. Get wasted. Worry about the Chloe situation later. Just surrender to the fucked-up hand that karma had played him and let the whole sorry mess play out whatever way the Gods of Fucked-Up Situations decided.
Or . . . shit, he must be crazy.
Chloe was still sleeping like the dead when he wrapped her in the blanket, put her over his shoulder as gently as he could and silently made his way downstairs to his car. It was still the dark side of 5 a.m., so he didn’t expect to see his neighbours up and about. As he passed his two homeless buddies, he realized that one of them was awake. Crap. This wasn’t good. For twenty bucks he’d give a full report to the National Enquirer and Zander would be done.
Again.
But when their gaze met, his buddy on the street simply took in the sight in front of him, nodded, then closed his eyes. On the one hand, he was relieved. And on the other, he chose not to be concerned that the transportation of what looked like a dead body didn’t command intervention.
After remotely opening the door locks, Zander manoeuvred Chloe off his shoulder and balanced her against the car, while he fumbled to get the passenger door open. Success.
Several long, awkward minutes of manipulation later, Chloe was in the passenger seat and Zander was now aware that Aston Martins shouldn’t be the car of choice when transporting a comatose human.
On the road, he made a call. Hands-free. Less danger of getting stopped by the cops with a crashed teenager in his front seat.
The rest of the journey, he stayed five miles under the speed limit and tried to ignore the palpitations that were making his breath come in short rasps.
When he pulled into his destination, he waited. This could all go so wrong. So, so wrong.
He’d set himself up for a fall and right now he was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
He was putting his trust in an untried source, one that had every reason not to help him.
A light went on in the window in front of him. The door opened.
Zander was out of the car and round to the passenger side, meeting the new arrival there.
Zander put his hand out and Lebron shook it.
‘Thanks, man. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’
Lebron slipped an arm under Chloe’s legs, one behind her back and used his huge bulk to lift her out as if she weighed nothing at all.
‘No worries, bud. Thanks for bringing her back. She must have left after lights out because no one noticed she’d gone.’
Lebron had only taken a couple of steps away when Chloe’s head jerked up and she let out a low wail as she realized what was happening. A piece of Zander’s gut twisted as she looked over Lebron’s shoulder at him, her eyes still hooded with sleep.
‘Come back and get me, Zander Leith. Do you promise? Do you?’
Zander knew he had to be truthful. You can’t lie to an addict. It only messes them up when they find out the truth. The last thing he should do is see her again. He was newly sober. She was still in the depths of her addiction. He shouldn’t be around her. It would be a killer for him. Dangerous. Risky. Crazy. Foolish. Destructive. But hey, didn’t he love all those things?
‘I promise,’ he told her.
19.
‘Dream to Sleep’ – H2O
Glasgow, 1986
His mum was crying again. Not the full-scale sobbing that he saw on the TV. In some ways he wished it was. No, this was silent crying, with pursed lips, eyes closed and only the tears that streamed down her face betraying her pain.
Zander wanted to punch a hole in the wall. How many times? How often would he watch her break her heart over a man that they all knew was a fucking arse?
Not that she shared that viewpoint. Not ever.
It didn’t matter how many times Jono Leith didn’t come home, or how many times he was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night by the police. It didn’t matter what he was accused of, or how outrageous it seemed that they had a false wall in the cupboard under the stairs that concealed an arsenal of weapons. It didn’t matter that he’d taken to carrying a knife with him whether he was just nipping to the bookie’s or going out to ‘work’.
It really didn’t matter. All she cared about was that he was her husband, vows taken in front of God, never to be broken.
Even when the tears ran down her cheeks and made her bruises look like dark puddles in the rain.
Zander took her a mug of tea and sat it on top of the fire-place in front of where she knelt, praying to the picture of Jesus on the wall above it. Tomorrow, she would go to 8 a.m. Mass and by 9 a.m. she would be at peace again, after asking God for support in return for a promise to forgive the man she’d married in his name.
Jono would look at the bruises on her face and he’d swear he was sorry, promise to change, while telling her it was her own fault.
And then it would start all over again.
There was usually some warning – a loss on the horses, a job that had gone wrong, a couple of nights in the cells – but that afternoon, it had come out of nowhere. Jono had had a couple of the boys round, Jimmy and Hugh, his long-time cohorts. They congregated at the kitchen table, their low tones screaming that they were up to something.
At fourteen, Zander already knew to stay out of the way. His mother didn’t. She made teas, looked for biscuits, asked after their wives.
‘On you go now, Maggie,’ Jono had said.
Maggie was about to do as he asked when she remembered that her rosary beads were on top of the fridge. She turned back to get them and walked right into Jono’s fist.
It was short. Sharp. Brutal.
At the door, Zander gasped, then dived to catch her as she staggered. Jimmy and Hugh continued to stare at the box of caramel wafers on the table in front of them.
‘Get her out of here, boy,’ Jono warned, in a voice that made it clear arguing wasn’t an option.
Rage ate at Zander’s guts as he put his arm around his mum’s waist and supported her as she staggered out of the room.
She didn’t say a word until the door closed behind them.
‘Sandy, he doesn’t mean it, son. He’s just under a lot of pressure. I’m fine. Honestly, it’s nothing.’
The blood that dripped from her nose ran down her chin and stained the crucifix at her neck bright red.
Nothing?
It took twenty minutes of first aid and prayer for the bleeding to stop completely, by which time the banging of the door and the silence told them that the men had adjourned to the pub.
That was five hours ago.
Now his mother was on her knees in prayer and Zander realized the rage that was chewing his guts wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I’m going out, Mum,’ he told her. Her response was to increase the volume on the next couple of lines of her Hail Mary.
He stopped by the cupboard in the hall, then grabbed his leather jacket from the hook on the door and headed out into the night. Only 6 p.m. and already it was pitch dark. He turned right and took the long way round so he didn’t pass Mirren or Davie’s houses. This wasn’t the time for seeing them. There was no way anyone else was getting dragged into his battle.
Down at the King’s Arms, he opened the door an inch and immediately spotted his dad, holding court at the bar, life and soul of the party. In a minute he would break into song and the rest of his cronies would join in. Then maybe he’d turn on the charm for a woman who caught his eye. Zander had seen it so many times before it made him feel physically sick.
He backed out and left the pub door swinging on its hinges, then walked to the end of the building and dipped into the alley at the side.
Waiting was the easy part. The hardest was the timing. It took instinct to get it right.
He heard Jono before he saw him, belting out ‘The Wonder of You’ as he staggered through the doors. Zander watched him come in his direction, an arm around a red-headed woman Zander didn’t recognize. She wasn’t
even a patch on his mother. Not a patch. Yet she looked at Jono with that same adoration that was so familiar. If only she knew that the flip side of that gregarious charisma was cruelty.
Closer. Jono stopped, pulled her in for a kiss, sang another couple of lines of the song with their faces just inches apart.
Closer. She was giggling now, looking up at him with wide eyes as his hand went inside her jacket.
Closer. ‘Wait! Sorry, Jono, but I’ve left my bag. Oh my God, how did I manage that? Let me just run back and grab it.’
‘On ye go, doll, and make it swift. I’ll be right here.’
She kissed him again, giving him time to give her arse a quick grope. She giggled and ran back inside.
Closer. Only a few feet away from where Zander stood, Jono turned to face the wall, unzipped his fly, took his cock out and started to pee, now whistling the chorus of ‘Love Me Tender’.
‘. . . Love me true. All my—’
Bang.
The spray of piss stopped instantly as the baseball bat made contact with the back of his head and he fell forward, banging his forehead against the wet patch on the wall and sliding downwards. Zander was fifty yards away, concealed by the darkness, when he heard a woman’s screams.
He ran the rest of the way, washed the blood off the baseball bat in the stream that ran behind the gardens on his street, replaced it in the hall cupboard and checked the house. Empty. His mother would be at Mass again, her bruises concealed by make-up and lies that she’d ask the Lord to forgive.
Heading to the kitchen sink, he leaned over it and begged his body to vomit, to purge him of the feelings of disgust, both for the man who spawned him and for what he’d just done. To the right, the bottle of whisky the men had shared earlier sat half full. Zander unscrewed the top and drank straight from the bottle. The nausea came first, but then . . . No sickness. Just a warmth, and later, a reassurance. Everything was fine. Fine. It was all OK. And his optimism grew with every drop that reached his bloodstream, until he finally stumbled up to bed and fell into a deep, contented sleep.
When the police came to the door, he didn’t even stir.
