by S. B. Caves
Glenn looked at the gaggle of people crowding around the back entrance of the studio, lined up as though they were waiting to enter a nightclub on New Year’s Eve. He saw a woman right at the front of the queue holding a squirming toddler in her arms.
‘Oh dear. I think you might be right there, Bob.’
‘She doesn’t even have an umbrella. She’s got her cell phone ready, though, you see that, Mr Schilling? Kiddie in one arm, cell in the other.’
‘Well at least it’s not hammering down, eh, Bobby?’ Glenn leaned forward and patted Bob’s shoulder. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the child is wrapped up warm.’
‘I hope so,’ Bob said, getting out of the limo. He walked around and opened Glenn’s door.
The usual cheer of adulation rose to greet him as he stepped out of the car and waved. The lights from the various cell phones bobbed like fireflies. Glenn was met by a burly security guard who walked him the ten paces to the studio. Someone had gone to the trouble of making a cardboard sign, speckled with glitter and dotted by rain.
‘Just this way, Mr Schilling,’ the giant security guard said, gesturing to the door.
‘One minute,’ Glenn said and stopped next to the woman at the front of the queue. He’d seen her in the line a few times but never with her child. Perhaps that was how she’d muscled her way to the front.
‘Glenny! Oh my God, Glenny can I get a picture with you?’ The woman was late thirties, her cheeks reddened by the cold. Her son, perhaps four years old, seemed too big for her to be holding. ‘Would you mind?’
‘Of course not,’ Glenn said. ‘May I?’ He took the woman’s phone and handed it to the security guard. ‘Perhaps you’d be so kind as to take a couple of snaps?’
The guard nodded; the phone looked like a child’s plaything in his meaty hands. Glenn leaned in with the woman and put an arm round her shoulders, then smiled at the flash. The guard handed back her phone.
‘Thank you so much! Thank you. We love Splendour. Jeez, my mom is going to be so happy I got a photo.’
‘No problem,’ Glenn said, and pinched the boy’s cheek. It felt icy to the touch. ‘Thank you for coming out to see the show. I’ve gotta run. It was nice meeting you.’ He smiled and waved at the crowd again, ignoring more requests, and then hurried inside. Shirley was there to meet him with a clipboard and a smile. ‘How are you, Mr Schilling?’
‘I’m just fine, my dear.’ The door closed behind him, drowning the babble. ‘It’s cold out tonight.’
‘Well it should be nice and warm in your dressing room.’
‘Oh that’s good. Listen, do you think you could have someone go out there and give those people some hot drinks? It’s very chilly.’ He rubbed his hands together and shivered inside his clothes. ‘That wouldn’t be too much bother, would it?’
‘No.’ Shirley shook her head, unbalanced by his request. ‘Course not. I’ll get craft services on to it.’
‘I’d sure appreciate it,’ he said. ‘How’s your husband’s foot, by the way?’
‘His back,’ she corrected with a smile. ‘He’s healing up. I think he’s loving the fact that I’m running around after him while he gets to lie there watching TV.’
Glenn laughed. ‘Of course he is. You’ll give him my best, won’t you?’
‘I sure will.’ She opened the door to his dressing room. ‘Have a great show, Mr Schilling.’
‘Thanks, Shirley.’ He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it up on the stand and sat down in the make-up chair, taking a few minutes to compose himself. On the table in front of him were the notes for the show. He skimmed them. Tonight’s guests included a French tennis player, a TV chef promoting his new cookbook, and the female comedy sensation Millie Cheeseman. He sighed, set the notes aside and waited for DeeDee to make him over.
Shirley came to get him an hour later, by which time he’d been preened and puffed with make-up, his skin made orange with foundation, his mane of silver hair backcombed into a bouffant. Tonight he sported an electric-blue suit with a black shirt and no tie, as was his trademark. A gold ring with a blood-red ruby on his little finger was the only jewellery he wore.
The music from the house band sailed down the white corridors. He’d been doing the show for twenty-two years and the butterflies had all but died in his stomach, though there was sometimes a rogue fluttering of wings. When the curtains rose and the lights were blinding him and the anonymous audience were cheering him on, he went on to autopilot. The weariness fell away and suddenly he was dancing, clicking his fingers in time with the piano and trumpet rhythm, shimmying up the glossy waxed stage and shuffling his feet. Thirty-odd years ago, his cavorting had been endearing. He had moved gracefully, unrestricted by the rusty suit of armour that old age encased him in. Now he was a parody of himself. He was still able to slide up and down the stage and keep time with the music, but the ovation that followed was almost belittling: strangers who’d grown up with him on TV acknowledging respectfully that a man of his age could still move beyond a shamble.
‘Thank you! Thank you!’ He smiled and bowed. ‘How about a round of applause for the Carlisle Kings?’ He waved his hand over to the house band and rode another wave of applause before segueing into his opening gag: an anecdote detailing a trip to the veterinary surgery with his dog Brutus that ended up with them at an undertaker’s parlour due to his failing eyesight. When he hit the punchline, he cued his showbiz laugh to prompt the audience. None of them would remember that he’d told a variation of this gag at least five times over the years, always changing the dog’s name or the details of the visit.
‘Anyway! Moving swiftly along,’ he said, removing a comically oversized pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and putting them on to read the cue card – strangling every last giggle out of the joke. ‘I’ve got a great line-up for you all tonight!’
* * *
‘How was the show, Mr Schilling?’
‘Just fine, Bob. Just fine.’ He dabbed his face with a handkerchief before picking up the large brandy that Bob had prepared for him. ‘Cheers, Bob,’ he said, and sipped long and deep.
‘No worries, Mr Schilling. I’ll have you home in a jiffy.’
He sank into the leather seat and closed his eyes. He’d given that studio audience every ounce of his energy, and he supposed they knew it. Wasn’t that, after all, the reason his numbers were still so high after all these years? Because he could still out-hustle the scruffy young bucks that sprouted every couple of years like knotweed? These manufactured celebs who made their name on YouTube could have their six weeks in the sun and fade back into obscurity as they always did. He’d already forgotten more tricks of the trade than they would ever know. His charisma could outshine an empty head with a pretty face. His wit was sharp enough to pierce any up-and-coming comedian’s ego. He was the king of Saturday-night TV.
And he was tired.
Tired and wired, that was his gig. He’d get home wanting to sleep but be too pent up to doze. He could take some Ambien, he supposed, but he never liked to do that. Cindy ate those things like Skittles and most days she’d fall asleep in her breakfast.
Back in the early days, picking up a coke habit was a necessary requirement for the job. It was the only way you could work such an insane schedule and still resemble a functioning human being. After all those years of grinding out gigs in smoky basement bars, sometimes doing two or three shows a night just to make the embarrassment seem worth the effort, he finally made it. He kicked the coke, beat the pills and found a way to drink responsibly. Now he did one show a week, thirty-two times a year, and was paid more money than he’d ever have a need to spend. He was lauded by the public, praised by his peers and had had dinner with every incarnation of the president from the past three decades. A little insomnia was a small price to pay.
Bob pulled up to the gate and George let him through with a wave. The limo drove down the pebble path, rounded the fountain and stopped in front of the steps. Glenn necked the last of the brandy, said his goo
dnight to Bob and started towards the mansion. His knees popped at every step, and after sitting down for so long, the top of his spine felt as though it’d curved like a shepherd’s staff. ‘Old, old, old,’ he said and scanned his thumbprint on the front-door sensor. The door opened with a click and he entered the cavernous reception area.
Cindy would be asleep in the bedroom. He briefly considered curling up next to her and watching some TV. Perhaps there would be a decent movie on, or one of the reality cop shows that he strangely enjoyed. With a deep sigh, he assessed the staircase. He knew that for the sake of his joints he should venture forth; get his kneecaps and lower back used to the idea of performing basic tasks. Then again, he had just done a whole show. He bypassed the staircase and took the elevator instead, agitated that a four-second ascent could feel so degrading.
When the doors opened, he padded down the hallway, his loafers sinking into the plush carpet. He checked his Rolex. It was just after one a.m. He entered the master bedroom, glanced once at his wife, who was sprawled diagonally on the mattress, and began undressing. He stripped down to his boxers and thought about the effort needed to manoeuvre Cindy over to her side of the bed. Shifting her dead weight would require more strength than he could muster. Instead, he strolled through the glass tunnel connecting the southern and eastern wings, silently regarding the magnitude of the moon.
In the study, he poured himself a cognac from the bar, and then went to the Batman bookcase, as Cindy called it. If it really had been a bookcase in the Batcave, he’d pull one of the books lining the shelves and the secret passage would open. Alas, his architecture was not so sophisticated. He gripped the edge of the bookcase and pulled. It came free from the wall and silently slid to the side, allowing passage to his thinking room. More stairs, only six this time, but now his feet were moving enthusiastically and he was breathless with excitement.
He also had an erection.
The room was small and windowless, occupied by a large-screen TV and DVD player. His latest DVD was already in the machine, so he turned the TV on and sat back in the leather sofa, sipping his cognac as he peeled off his boxer shorts.
The TV came into focus and the muffled cries of the girls on the screen were like music to his ears. He moaned, the sound airy on his liquored breath. He was waiting for the sequence of screams that began at around the nine-minute mark. That was the best part. After a dozen or so viewings, the visuals bored him. But the sounds those girls made were genuine. There were no exaggerated groans of pleasure, no grunts of glee. Only exquisite suffering. He could close his eyes and listen to their music, re-enacting the event, recalling every sensory detail with vivid clarity: the way their hair felt against his naked thighs, the ridges of their ribcages, the nub of tailbone. His penis jerked as he remembered the way he had introduced each new instrument to the girls, revelling at how their eyes widened with terror. At nine minutes and forty-seven seconds, Glenn Schilling reached orgasm. He had not yet begun to touch himself.
He did not think he would be able to wait until Wednesday for another session.
But at least he would be able to sleep now.
9
‘Lena, look at me, honey. Concentrate now. I want to make something very clear to you. Are you following what I’m saying?’
The girl looked up from her dinner of tinned spaghetti. After watching Saturday Night Splendour in silence, she had begun talking and hadn’t stopped until well after midnight, delivering the details in fragmented monologues that drove Francine insane with frustration. Then she’d realised Lena was hungry and that she might be able to think better with some food inside her. So she’d grabbed the spaghetti, heated it in the microwave and given her two pieces of buttered toast to go with it.
‘Everything you have just told me is extremely serious. You have to make absolutely sure that what you said is the truth.’
Lena slurped up spaghetti, tomato-sauce freckles dotting her cheeks. ‘It is the truth. They take us to his house by the ocean.’
‘I believe you,’ Francine said. Her wrist throbbed from writing, but it was easier this way. She could make bullet points rather than record the girl’s ramblings. She flexed her fingers. ‘But if I’m going to take this thing any further, I just … I need to know if you might be unclear about any of it, or maybe if you’ve exaggerated certain things.’
Lena shook her head and put her fork down. ‘What do you mean, take it further?’
‘I mean …’ Christ, she didn’t know what she meant. Pain bored through the centre of her skull. Every nerve in her back felt pinched. ‘I mean I will have to figure something out.’
‘You can’t go to the cops. They already know.’
‘I don’t think I could take this to the police even if they didn’t. This is an extremely serious accusation and you’re the only proof I have. So what do I do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lena shrugged. ‘Not my problem.’
‘You’ve just told me that one of the most famous men in America is raping young girls … that my daughter is among his victims … that you are one of his victims. But all I have is your word for it. Now I can’t go to the cops because, according to you, they’re in on this whole thing.’
‘They are.’
‘That’s the only part that doesn’t make sense to me, Lena. How could the police knowingly let this happen?’
Lena’s eyes flicked around, a frog tracing the movements of a fly. ‘The police work for them. They come to the house and laugh at us. They laugh.’
Francine nodded wearily, then set the pen down. ‘All right. I guess we have to leave it there for tonight. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’
‘What are you gonna do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Francine replied, blinking rapidly, the corners of her eyes burning with fatigue. ‘I don’t have a whole lot of options, do I? Maybe I’ll see if I can speak with Glenn Schilling.’
‘No, you can’t do that,’ Lena said shakily. ‘You don’t understand the trouble you’ll bring.’
‘Enough, Lena.’ Francine held up her hand. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of what I can’t do. I’ve got to do something.’
‘You don’t know what they’re like …’
‘Lena, I said enough. I don’t want to hear any more protesting. You don’t need to get involved in any of this. I’ll do it alone.’
‘But what about me? What will I do? They’ll come and get me when you’re gone! They’ll take me back!’
‘I’m just thinking aloud,’ Francine said. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Francine?’ Lena’s voice was frail and childlike. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t go after them.’
‘What am I supposed to do about Autumn?’
‘Even if you got her back … She’s not the same little girl you lost.’ She blinked and tears plinked onto the counter. ‘None of us are.’
Francine stiffened. ‘Why don’t we call it a wrap? Put your bowl in the sink when you’re finished.’ She turned and headed to the bedroom without wishing Lena goodnight. She didn’t get undressed, just flopped down on the mattress. Her thoughts flapped around like bats in a cave, darting aimlessly, never settling.
* * *
When Francine woke, she knew immediately that something was wrong. She sat up, groggy and confused, frantically looking around her bedroom. She’d left the light on. In many ways it was a familiar feeling: often when she’d gone to bed drunk, she’d wake in the middle of the night convinced that she’d left the stove on or that she hadn’t shut her apartment door properly. Of course, it was all just alcohol-induced paranoia, but she still had to get up and check. This time, though, there was cold clarity in her unease: something had roused her and it wasn’t just in her imagination.
She could hear that the TV was still on in the living room, and her first thought was that maybe a loud sound had jolted her – a scream or an explosion from a movie perhaps. Or maybe Lena had dropped something.
She stepped out into the hallway and walked to the liv
ing room. ‘Lena?’ she called, not too loudly in case the girl was asleep. The living room door was wide open. She poked her head inside. ‘Lena?’ She wasn’t there. Francine walked over and tapped on the bathroom door. Empty. Then it hit her in a flash of ice-cold panic. She’s gone. She scurried to the front door and saw that it had been left open a crack, a frigid breeze breathing into the apartment. She flung the door wide and stepped out. ‘Lena!’ she yelled, not caring that her sudden cry would more than likely rouse her neighbours. She hurried to the edge of the balcony and peered down into the black courtyard below, but could see no sign of the girl.
She turned and ran back inside the apartment, slipped into her sneakers, grabbed her keys and headed out into the night, running down the stairwell and emerging into the parking lot. She shouted Lena’s name again, louder this time, and heard her own voice come bouncing back to her. She looked at the dumpster, thinking that Lena might be hunkered down with the garbage where she’d hidden her bag, but there was no sign of her.
She got in her car and began driving with the headlights on full beam. A cat darted out in front of the vehicle and narrowly avoided getting crushed. She kept watch on both sides of the road, thinking that maybe Lena was on foot and trying to thumb a ride. She circled the block, then tried a different route. Where would the girl go at this time of night? And why would she just up and leave like that without any warning?
I should have just dragged her to the police station and forced her to tell them.
No, that wouldn’t have done any good at all. The only possible outcome of that scenario would be Lena getting fast-tracked to a padded cell. Francine was sure that the girl would’ve wigged out and they wouldn’t have taken her seriously at all.
So why are you taking her seriously, Francine?
Because she was telling the truth and Francine believed her. And now Lena was somewhere out there, alone, running around scared and confused.
