Guess Who

by Chris McGeorge

  She turned back. “I’m scared now. I’m really scared.” And with that, she was gone.

  24

  He was alone in the bathroom once again. He turned to the mirror to see that he looked far worse than before. His skin seemed to be covered in some kind of slick liquid. His vision was blurred.

  He tried to focus on his reflection but he was fuzzy around the edges. Cold jolts of electricity pulsed through him—his heart going three times too fast—enough to power an aircraft. He ducked down to the toilet as the urge to vomit rose up inside him. Opening the lid just in time, he threw up the entire contents of his stomach—a purple-tinged liquid mixed with small chunks of what was once food. It burned his throat and he choked as more came out. Three lurches of his stomach and it was done. The leavings floated on the top of the water. It stank of iron—of acid and The End.

  He rested his head on the toilet bowl, blindly searching with his hand for the flush. He pressed it and the vomit swirled away. The smell stayed, mixing with the smell of blood. He closed his eyes and thought of how easy it would be to stay here, to just go to sleep.

  His throat was on fire.

  Somehow he pulled himself back up to the sink. He turned the cold water on full blast and cupped a full handful of water into his mouth. He slurped it up and it slid down his throat, feeling better. A few more cups and he swilled the water around his mouth this time, spitting it out to get out the last bits of vomit. He turned on the hot tap, and after a few seconds, warm steam rose from the bowl. He closed his eyes, taking pleasure in the heat on his face.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, sipping water from the cold tap and steaming himself from the hot. But he knew it was too long. He was feeling better—just had had to clear some space in his belly. But the Crash was still coming. He needed a drink, or pills, or both. The Crash would be worse than this.

  Alan. Mandy. Constance. Ryan. And Headphones. One of these is not like the other. Who was the murderer? They had all given him reasonable stories. They all seemed genuine. No one had hidden the fact that they were connected to Winter. They were all linked together, in ways they didn’t know.

  Alan still seemed the most likely. He had a strong motive—even admitted it himself. But Alan didn’t seem like a man to do something so brash. He was a terrible person, but he was also clever. Killing a witness would be irrational, stupid. But if it was all in service of some bigger plan...

  Constance could’ve done it. She was an actress, so could’ve easily made him believe her story. And she was crazy, volatile. Who knew what she was capable of? He bet that getting her to murder someone wouldn’t take too much. But there was something about her face when she was describing the evil man. He had seen something in her eyes.

  Ryan worked here—in this building. He could’ve been a useful person to have on the inside of a plan like this. He knew things about the rooms that normal people wouldn’t. And he also seemed to desperately need money to help his family. He was athletic, probably quite strong. Was it really too far a leap to think he could be responsible?

  That left Headphones and Mandy. He couldn’t see it. Headphones’s reaction to Dr. Winter—she saw the old man as a father figure. They were friends. And Mandy—there was one thing he kept coming back to with her. That first time she saw Winter. That first scream. When she had come into the bathroom. It was so loud, so scared, so devoid of hope. It was real. There was no way. Surely.

  They’re the least likely. So maybe they’re the most. A strange thought, but he couldn’t entirely dismiss it. After all, he was an entertainer, and on his television show producers regularly employed that tactic. They deflected suspicion from the actual perpetrator to make it a bigger shock when it finally came out. Maybe the man in the horse mask knew this. But still, Headphones? Mandy? Really? He still couldn’t imagine they would be capable of such a thing.

  Are you capable of such a thing? A strange thought, a sickening thought, but not unwarranted. After all, he was suffering some memory loss. But could he do such a thing? Especially to Dr. Winter?

  Winter and the evil man had been planning this for a long time. Did Winter really hate Sheppard that much? To condemn hundreds of innocent lives. Was this what Sheppard did to people? He didn’t mean to. Whatever Sheppard had done...he didn’t mean it. Maybe this is why you killed Winter. You found out what he was up to. With a sickening feeling in his gut, Sheppard realized he couldn’t rule himself out.

  Could he totally blame Winter though? Sheppard knew he had probably meant to do whatever he did to make Winter hate him so much. The old Sheppard wouldn’t have. The old Sheppard who thought that maybe things had gone too far. The old Sheppard that was going to quit his show, shrug off all the attention and go back to being nobody.

  But he wasn’t that man anymore. He was governed by the little kid he once was. The kid who wanted attention more than anything else. The kid that wanted “it” so much, and reached out and got it. And then vowed never to be an unknown again.

  Tell me, do you think you are a good man?

  Things had happened too fast. The drinking and the drugs. Making it easier to move. Forward. Always forward. He had grown into something terrible. And he hadn’t even cared.

  Self-pity gushed over him. He couldn’t even look at himself. The bloodshot eyes, the slick skin, the look of disdain. He was broken. A shadow of the illusion that appeared on television. The man behind the mask.

  The mirror was fogging up. His face disappearing in the mist.

  He was not that man. Not now, not in this terrible bathroom. He was just another man with too many questions and no answers. He had ducked and dived all his life, trouble finding it hard to catch him. How had he not known something like this was coming? How one day the mouse would fall into the trap?

  Was it enough to be sorry?

  He turned the taps off to see the last of the steam swirl up and settle in the room, mixing in with the smell of blood and vomit.

  At the door, he glanced around. The shadow of Dr. Winter behind the curtain. He drew it back once more.

  Tell me...

  “I’m not a good man. I never was.” Finally answering him. After twenty years.

  And Winter’s face was cold—letting him know that it wasn’t enough.

  25

  Before...

  Brickwork was buzzing by the time he got there. He got out of the back of the limo and waved to the large queue of people waiting to get in. They waved back and a number of them screamed at him happily. He chuckled and nodded to the bouncer as he passed. The big burly man smiled and unhooked the cordon.

  Sheppard made his way down the steps slowly. He’d already had a lot to drink, and had taken one too many pills. His limbs felt comfortably numb, as though they could float, and there was that familiar fluffy feeling in his brain. He was seeing the world through a cloud, but the drink was yanking him back down to earth. That was the coolness of the combo. He existed in the in-between. The new reality. Unfortunately, in the reality he had left behind, he could walk straight. He grasped the banister as he almost slipped on the carpeted steps. His heart fluttered. Stairs were the enemy of the drunk.

  He prevailed eventually and emerged into the large open area of the club. It was incredibly dark, lit up incrementally by flashing strobe lights. The area was a fantastically crowded dance floor with a raised bar to the side and booths placed around at the edges. The dance floor was already packed with people, jumping up and down to some pop track.

  He smiled and started to make his way across the dance floor. As people saw him, they moved out of the way. Some people tried to talk to him, or grab him. He just smiled at them. In the light, he couldn’t see anyone, pick out any distinguishing features, so he had no idea who anyone was. They were ghosts. And for that, he was almost glad. He didn’t have time for real people.

  He looked around the edges. For the VIP area. F
ound it by the bar. Familiar faces behind the barrier. The security guard spotted him and smiled.

  “Mr. Sheppard.” His mouth made the movements. “Good to see you.”

  He opened the barrier and let him through. Sheppard smiled back at him, slapping him on the back and covertly handing him three twenty-pound notes.

  The code for No interruptions.

  The VIP area was slightly offset from the rest of the club. An alcove, small but long enough to channel the music coming from the rest of the room. Changing it. Making it quieter. It was also lighter, from small bulb lights embedded in the brick ceiling. The area was a round of comfy seats and Sheppard could actually see the faces of the people sitting there. It was largely empty but Sheppard saw his publicist, who was absorbed in conversation with two glamorous women who looked like identical twins, his director and PA, who were not so enraptured in talking with each other and Douglas Perry, who was very obviously waiting for Sheppard to arrive while sipping on a strange-looking colorful drink, topped with a slice of orange and a small pink umbrella.

  On the circular table, there were mountains of empty glasses, and as he looked, a pretty young waitress came along to clean up. The table was slick with alcohol and he thought he detected her grimace as she picked up the first glass to put on her tray.

  As Sheppard slid down into a chair, happy to be able to stop worrying about falling over, Douglas looked up from his phone. With a straw hanging from the side of his mouth, he gave a great guffaw. Sheppard wondered how far gone he was. The agent had a penchant for cocaine and was rarely seen off it. He had even got Sheppard to try it a few times, and although it wasn’t unpleasant, Sheppard didn’t like the aftereffects of it. He much preferred pills. “Here he is, the man of the hour. Or should I say, the man of the year.”

  Everyone in the area looked around at this bold statement, and saw Sheppard. They all turned, smiling and clapping. The girls talking to his publicist seemed to want to ditch him for Sheppard, although the publicist was so locked in conversation, they couldn’t get away.

  “Come on, what are you having? I’m buying.”

  “It’s an open bar, Doug,” Sheppard said, already slurring his words.

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m buying,” Douglas said, and laughed heartily. He raised a hand and waved over a woman in a short red dress. She was pretty, with long legs. Sheppard slowly looked her up and down as Douglas ordered him a bourbon and another monstrously colorful concoction for himself.

  Once she had gone, Douglas returned his attention to Sheppard. Sheppard grabbed at one of the baggies of white powder and started setting up a line.

  “So how are you, old mate?” Douglas always had the cadence of an older gentleman, one who might have seen wartime. In reality, he was fifty and as spineless as they came.

  “I’m great,” Sheppard said, shuffling in his seat. Already thinking he could use another pill. He never felt sated by them—never content. He existed in one of two camps—too much or too little. He didn’t know which one was worse.

  “You look a little weathered, if you don’t mind me saying, mate.”

  Sheppard smiled at him as the woman came to give him his drink. He took it and downed it in one. A shiver through his brain, a jolt of energy. Better already.

  “That better?”

  He replaced the glass on the waitress’s tray and asked for another. She nodded and left.

  “HA. Well I guess you deserve it. You alone are putting my children through college, you know that.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Honestly, Sheppard, this is fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Your numbers are going through the roof. The show is doing better than anything that has ever been in the morning slot. Have you seen the numbers? Did Zoe give you the numbers?”

  “I’ve seen the numbers. She gave me the numbers.”

  “I haven’t seen Zoe here yet. When she comes, she’ll give you the numbers.”

  “Doug,” Sheppard said, laughing, “I’ve seen the numbers.”

  Douglas stopped talking and laughed too. “I’m sorry, mate. It’s just so fantastic. YOU are bloody fantastic. You remember when I took you on? You were—”

  “Fourteen. Yes I know. I was there.”

  “—fourteen. I never thought you’d get this far. I mean, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but thank God that Maths teacher was murdered when he was.”

  Sheppard didn’t know how to respond. So just smiled. Douglas could always find the most tactless way to say something—it was his talent. It was why he had two ex-wives and four children who despised him.

  Through his foggy mind, he thought of Mr. Jefferies. The kind, rotund Maths teacher who had always helped him with his homework. The teacher who’d been found hanging from the ceiling.

  “What did you want to talk to me about, Doug?” Sheppard said, as the woman with the legs came back with another drink and Doug’s cocktail. This time Sheppard took his and held it up to the light. The crisp brown liquid looked inviting, silky. His life fuel. He took a sip and said to the woman, “Don’t let my glass get empty, yeah?”

  The woman nodded. She looked dazed, excited. She was obviously a fan. Women did that weird fluttering thing with their eyes whenever they recognized him. He couldn’t tell if they wanted to sleep with him or murder him. Either way, they looked invitingly dangerous.

  Douglas took his new drink. “I wanted to talk to you about new opportunities.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Sheppard said. The drink wrapping round him, like a warm blanket on a cold evening.

  “I’ve been approached by a number of parties about the possibility of you writing a book.”

  “A book?”

  “Yes, those things with words in.”

  “Very funny, Doug. What would I write a book about?”

  “Well, anything. Anything you like. As interesting or as dumb as you want. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter. People will buy it because it’ll have your name on it. Books are just like television. It’s all about the man behind the glass.”

  “I don’t know how to write a book.”

  “People will help you. Hell, people will write it for you, if you want. You just need to be the name on the cover. What do you say?”

  Sheppard laughed. “Easy as that, huh?”

  “Think about what the book could be though. The Resident Detective Morgan Sheppard tells of his struggles solving the murder of his own teacher, when he was just eleven years old. I mean Christ, Morgan, that’s a surefire hit. That’s Times bestseller list stuff.”

  “It does sound enticing,” Sheppard said, swirling the bourbon around in his glass. He could almost see it. The book in the front window of Waterstones. A tasteful artsy cover maybe. His face on the back of the jacket, smiling out of thousands of copies. A nice thick volume, filled with the accounts of the child detective.

  “So?”

  “I don’t very often say no, Doug,” Sheppard said, “so it would be rather pointless to start now.”

  Douglas almost jumped out of his seat. “HA. Yes, sir, you are fantastic, Sheppard. We’re going to be kings of the world. You and I. Morgan Sheppard at the top of every chart. You’re a brand. And we’re going to make millions. I’ve already got publishers willing to pay out the ass for the first one.”

  “The first one? Let’s not get carried away, Doug.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” Douglas mimicked. “That sounds like a Sheppard without enough booze inside of him. Waitress.” And he waved over the woman for another round.

  The rest of the night was lost in a toxic fume of poisonous substances. Sheppard and Douglas talked a while longer about nothing in particular as they became steadily worse for wear. Many times, small groups of mainly girls came up to the VIP rope and asked Sheppard for an autograph. Although this was meant to be a TV company party, he didn
’t recognize any of them. Douglas insisted that he sign every single one and Sheppard didn’t complain.

  At some point, the music got louder and the lights got lower, so Sheppard could hardly see Douglas in front of him, let alone hear him. The two shouted to each other, but didn’t get much of what the other was saying. Sheppard decided that he would have to cross the vast expanse of the dance floor to find somewhere to urinate. He gestured to Douglas, and somehow the drunken man got the right end of the stick.

  Sheppard stood up, the world around him rocking. It was the world that was unsteady, not him. He was the greatest he had ever felt. Child Detective. TV Presenter. And now Author. He found his way out of the VIP area, patting the guard on the shoulder more for support than friendliness. The dance floor looked bigger than it was before. It swelled and pulsated in front of him. The people all morphed together in his mind, so he was just looking at one dark mass. He kept his head down and walked through them.

  A weird part of being famous was that people always seemed to want to touch you. It was rather bizarre. People didn’t seem content with just seeing you—they had to make sure you were real. As he was crossing the dance floor, Sheppard experienced this phenomenon in full force. People tapped him, shook his hand and even hugged him. And Sheppard was drunk enough to let it happen.

  It felt like an age before he finally got free of the dance floor and looked up to see a neon sign saying “John” and an arrow pointing down a narrow corridor. John? Well, it was a male name he guessed, so he followed it and finally found the toilets.

  It was another half an hour before he finally got back to the VIP area. As he sat down, he noticed that Douglas had made his way through three more glasses of multicolored sludge. The groups had converged and Douglas was talking animatedly to the twins while the producer and the publicist were having a heated discussion. His PA, Rogers, was looking pale...like he might pass out or throw up or do both at any moment.

  The others looked round as the waitress came up to Sheppard with another bourbon.