Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities)

by John David Harding

  And then he walked free from court, ready to go out on a massive bender to celebrate. Until he turned his phone on; it had been turned off during the hearing. Ben and Jay had been arrested that morning after photo taken by Emit of them drug dealing had been released to the Daily Herald.

  “Fuckin’ Paige,” he yelled in the Magistrates’ car park. He turned to his solicitor “T’at bloody woman’s done it again!”

  “Ummm …”

  “I’ll kill ‘er,” he threatened and opened the door to his chauffeur-driven car. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ‘er.”

  Chapter LXXXXVI

  Paige

  The large glass stage at the Stockholm arena was hot to touch and Paige squealed as her bare feet made contact with the slippery surface.

  It reflected her body as if it was a sheet mirror and the bright lights that covered the specially prepared floor heated the surface as if filaments were encased into the glass.

  She swore, carefully walking onto the set and gingerly taking each step as if the lead singer expected there to be a trapdoor.

  Thin tarpaulin was stretched around the stage, a semi-circle, except for a board of lights behind them which turned bright primary colours.

  The effect from the auditorium was one of three silhouettes; Paige discarded her long T-Shirt and walked up to the microphone. Her pregnancy belly was clear in profile.

  The first note came as a surprise to the tiny attendance; with little to see, the few witnesses to the private dress rehearsal had no way of seeing anything other than an outline of the three musicians.

  But the sounds of Paige's powerful voice, Claire's complex guitar riffs and Jack's understated keyboard notes filled the room as they delivered their song with perfection. Paige walked around the stage, taking the eyes of the audience with her.

  At the end of her performance, she discarded the microphone and walked confidently off stage, causing the host to shout. “T-Shirt. You must wear your T-Shirt off stage!”

  “Hey, at least she didn't tear down the tarpaulin,” John countered as he walked up on stage and escorted the UK's entry to the Green Room.

  For two days, the Bare Necessities had been practising in their private space. Paige's wandering around stage and lurching towards the tarpaulin had brought the thin translucent fabric down on more than one occasion. The BBC discussed this issue with EuroSong and they made an amendment to the design; they would add eyelets into the top of the tarpaulin, and hook the fabric onto the frame above the stage, instead of using clamps.

  The UK were formally warned that if, during the performance, Paige or any of the band are seen fully nude on stage then the country could be disqualified. John was careful in trialling, documenting and then approving their latest plan with the organisers.

  After their performance, they sat and watched the next entrant, the Swedish band of No-Nonsense Ninjas sing an upbeat Europop about the British girl who broke their heart. Claire swooned over their performance, openly admiring their guitarist.

  The Swedish contingent was placed adjacent to the British representatives in the Green Room and Claire nervously introduced herself; it had been the first time they had seen the acts perform live.

  The two bands had met once before; when The Bare Necessities had toured throughout Europe, they had warm-up acts in every country. Two years ago, an unknown Stockholm band performed before them, and they had crossed paths after the show.

  Paige listened to the conversation. Henrik was around 5ft 10in tall; his mousy brown hair was disorganised and unkempt and his cheeky smile looked more at home in cheesy children's television.

  His nails were uneven and bitten; his laugh nervous and muted as Claire tried to ask him about his guitar in her native language.

  “How is Hazel?” Henrik asked and Paige’s ears pricked up.

  “Hazel?” Paige asked, walking towards Swedish act. “What … why? Umm …”

  “She was your manager, wasn’t she?” Henrik asked.

  “Yes, she still is. Why do you …?”

  Henrik smiled. “She was good to us. She got us paid quickly. She was nice.”

  “Yeah, she still is,” Paige muttered, and sat next to Jack. Paige suppressed her amusement and they watched the remaining 24 acts go through their performances. Many were as Jack and Paige remembered from the videos Claire had made them watch: bubblegum Europop songs or ballads. Most of them were forgettable, and they argued with John over the merits of most.

  The songs towards the top of the betting odds – and the favourites – were “poor” according to Paige. She disliked the vocal range or tune or the originality. She criticised every performance.

  “A bad song doesn't win EuroSong,” John repeated for the umpteenth time that afternoon. “It just doesn't.”

  “But if Armenia and Russia, and Luxembourg. If they are favourites then it will!”

  “Armenia won't win,” Jack said. “It's too slow. Remember the rules I gave you.”

  “They are just guidelines based on past performance,” John reminded him, rubbing his eyes. “Look, Russia and Sweden are joint favourites at the moment. You are next, a bit further behind. There is a thought that Paige will get you all disqualified so that's lowering your odds slightly.”

  “What?”

  “The EuroSong gossip forum,” John replied airily. “It's where …”

  “EuroSong geeks go?” Paige interrupted. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. Anyway, the odds on the UK being disqualified are three to one. That's very high.”

  “That is very high,” Jack mused. “Why do they think Paige will get in trouble?” John raised an eyebrow and Jack just nodded. “Point taken.”

  “I'm not going to get us in trouble,” Paige snapped. “Well disqualified anyway. I'm not totally irresponsible. I'm a mother.”

  “Not yet, you’re not!”

  “OK. A mother-in-training.”

  Paige drifted into a catnap as they watched the show; she admitted she was finding the week incredibly tiring. Jack and Claire debated with the BBC production staff as the EuroSong rehearsal progressed and then laughed as the organisers tested the leaderboard was tested with random numbers, and Malta won; the eccentric entrant ran excitedly around the Green Room.

  “You need to poll well in the jury vote,” John had told them. “Britain always does poorly in the televote.” For the first time, the points awarded to the entrants by the juries and the public would be split. “But then, we’ve not had a popular act in Europe enter before so fingers crossed. You might rewrite the rule book.”

  “Nah,” Jack dismissed. “Past performance is usually a good indicator.”

  John laughed, waking Paige. “OK guys. Get a good night's sleep after tea. Long day tomorrow.”

  “I thought I might go and see a bit of Stockholm,” Jack replied. “Fancy coming Paige?”

  “No! Go on your own!” Paige replied abrasively as they rose from their chairs and were bumped by 25 other sets of performers eager to leave the stifling studio.

  “Don't you want to see the loveliest city in Sweden?”

  Paige yawned. “Not really! Gonna go to bed. I’m knackered.”

  Chapter LXXXVII

  Paige

  Paige’s phone vibrated; she instinctively answered it without looking at who was calling her.

  Her brother’s sobs drew her attention. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Have you seen Twitter?”

  Paige shook her head before replying. “No. What’s up?”

  He sniffed. “I’m trending. A bit.”

  “Wow. What the fuck have you done? Robbed Buck House?” Jeremy didn’t respond immediately. “Seriously, what the fuck has happened?”

  “Some Twitter accounts have said that Mark was a … was a … he was a …”

  “He was a what?” Paige asked impatiently.

  “A porn star.”

  “Oh,” Paige hummed. “Bit of a surprise, but is that a problem?”

  Her m
ind recalled the statuesque and well-turned out look of her brother’s boyfriend; she could understand why he might be attracted to such a vocation. Jeremy audibly gulped. “Yeah. ‘Cause they’ve linked to the videos he’s done for various websites and the like.”

  “Oh, so he is a porn star. Did you know?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  “OK. Should we care? I knew there was something a bit fishy ‘cause at the wedding he wasn’t telling me what he did in any great detail. But if you knew then what’s the problem?”

  “Mum didn’t know.”

  “Well Mum should be concentrating on her youngest daughter at the moment.”

  “She’s really unhappy about Mark.”

  Paige groaned. “We live in a fucked-up world which sexualises everything. It permits and expects everyone to consume erotic material but simultaneously condemns those that produce it. I don’t want to every receive one of his videos as a birthday gift, nor receive an invite to an awards ceremony where he’s been nominated for peachiest buttocks or something. But I don’t care what he does as long as it’s not a Tory MP. As long as you’re happy.”

  “Yeah. I love him.”

  “Good. And he looks after you?” Paige asked.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Then who cares what people say?”

  “It’s being linked to you. Mark’s your brother-in-law and such.”

  “But you two aren’t married yet. My only brother-in-law is a small-minded homophobe.” She laughed loudly. “Oh that’s made my day ‘cause if that’s the story then it’s another slap for that bastard. Especially after his relentless homophobic lyrics and that picture that was released. And I think it was Ricky behind this, somehow.”

  “Why Ricky?”

  “Retribution maybe over Ben and Jay. Although no idea how he got to find out. Perhaps one of his music video directors was also the director for Gay Fitness Instructors or whatever.”

  Jeremy coughed. “Was Ben and Jay being arrested something to do with you?”

  “Of course,” Paige said proudly. “Well Leah actually. I just helped. Anyway, my offer of a flat or house for you two if you need it remains.”

  “Thanks. But … don’t you care what’s on Twitter?”

  “Hell no. There is an account called PaigeWatch. And every time I appear in public they tweet where I am. And when I sing there is a Pubic Update and if I’m waiting for my next wax they guess the length of my bush. And this account has 900,000 subscribers or something. I swear Twitter is full of individuals that I don’t want to go near.”

  “Really. You’re cool with everything?”

  “Between you and Mark. Totally. With Ricky. That bastard’s gonna die when I get back to London.”

  Chapter LXXXXVIII

  Hazel

  The sounds of the key in the lock drove a cool wash of fear into the young lady. The message he had left on her voicemail was threatening enough.

  Ricky had thought that he had “walked free from court” but received a message from his solicitor and agent; his imminent US tour was in jeopardy as they could no longer be sure to get a visa with his conviction.

  He argued with her; he was told he was a free man but the Conditional Discharge did not come without consequences. He was a free man, but one with a criminal record. For assault. Against a teenager.

  Serious charges that the United States would not ignore, and of course, Ricky didn't blame himself. It was Freddie's fault and it was Hazel's fault.

  His young wife got the brunt of his anger; the message on her voicemail was threatening and aggressive as the drunken thug took out his anger on someone who wasn't able to fight back. As usual.

  The alcopops and lager flowed until he staggered back to his apartment, flinging open the door to see the frame of his wife in the doorway to the kitchen.

  She forced a smile. “Do you want something to eat?” His eyes met his silhouetted frame in the doorway, the bright light of British springtime burning around the figure of her husband.

  His sneer was derisive.

  “Fuckin’ dinner,” he snorted. “Yo got a fuck load o’ dinner to make up for what yo’ done!”

  Her hands shook as she opened the fridge and passed a bottle of lager to the shaven-headed man. He snatched it from her, looking her up and down with a menacing glint in his eyes. “What?” She asked.

  “Do you know, what you've done to me?” He spat, drinking the beer from the bottle and blocking her passage from the kitchen. “I ain't goin’ to t’ States next month. Yo, and t’at fuckin’ slut, got naked pics of me on t’ net. And then yo’ get me nicked 'cause you're bein’ a fuckin’ slag. And then yo’ go and get me sued by t’at fat bitch 'cause Paige says so.”

  “It's not Paige …”

  He flung the bottle into the sink and it cracked with an echoing thud, and he grabbed hold of the shoulder straps of Hazel's clothing. “It's always fuckin’ Paige. She fuckin’ hates me and she's fuckin’ … poison.”

  “She's not,” Hazel muttered and he pushed her against the worktop.

  “Don't fuckin’ argue with me! I is yo’ fuckin’ husband.” The back of his hand slapped Hazel across the face and she slumped against the cupboards as the shock of the strike registered. Scrambling to her feet, he grabbed hold of her again. “Yo’ my fuckin’ wife and yo’ will do as your told. Have some fuckin’ respect!”

  He raised his fists but Hazel scrambled away from him, dodging the abuser as strikes rained towards her. She made it out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, slamming and holding the door shut. She grabbed at her phone as Ricky hammered on the door.

  Hazel scrolled through the phone’s address book as she tried to hold the door closed, hoping to dial “Mum.” She wanted help.

  But Ricky yanked open the latch and threw her onto the bed; the phone fell onto the floor.

  “You don't run away from me!” Ricky shouted, slapping Hazel and causing her to scream.

  “Ricky, please, let me go!” Hazel implored.

  “Have some respect. Yo’ don't respect me and yo’ chat up some fuckin’ nerd. Yo’ t’ink he's better than me.” Another red mark splashed across Hazel's tear-stained face as she struggled against his grip and body weight.

  But at the end of the bed, someone had picked up. And Hazel hadn't dialled Mum, she had gone one entry too far. Paige was listening to every word.

  Chapter LXXXIX

  Paige

  The voice of Paige screaming into the mobile phone did not cause the assault to stop; the pregnant woman scribbled a short note to her partner and rang Andre from the hotel phone.

  “You need to get me to England tonight.”

  “Hi Paige, what's up?”

  “Andre, get me to England tonight. Private plane if you have to. Unicorns or dragons if nothing’s available.”

  “Paige, what's …”

  “Just fucking do it!” Paige snapped. “Hazel's being beaten up.”

  “She's been beaten up? Bloody hell, what happened?”

  “No being beaten up. Right now. By Ricky, that lowlife scumbag. She dialled me and I heard it. It’s happening now. And no-one, and I mean no-one, touches my sister.”

  “I'll call the Police.”

  “Good. And get me a plane to England. I'm getting a taxi to the airport now.”

  “What does Jack say? Isn't your EuroSong thing …”

  “Yes tomorrow. But just do it.”

  “Miss Simmons …”

  The girl sighed, trying to dress with one phone tied to her right ear and her mobile on speakerphone. “I really don't have time for your Miss Simmons speech that starts with an exasperated sigh and ends up with me screaming down the fucking phone at you. I am not five, just get me on a plane thing and ensure that it lands at London City airport for me to take a taxi to Kensington and beat the living shit out of Ricky. Ring me when it's sorted.”

  “What does Jack think?”

  “Who knows? I don’t care. He’s not hear to ask. Just do
it. I'm getting dressed for fucks sake, this shows I'm serious! I’m never, ever, a diva. Tonight I am cashing in my Diva Card. Just do it. You wanted to make things better between you and the band. Tonight’s your night. Show us that you can be trusted.”

  Paige never heard Andre’s answer as the lady frantically ran down the stairs, taking just her passport, money and phone. Hazel’s call had rung off and she wasn't answering her mobile as Paige frantically redialled.

  She almost ignored Andre until she remembered that he was doing her a favour. “Go to Stockholm Bromma,” he said. “There's a Beech 390 run by Stockholm Charter that's filing a flight plan to take you to London City Airport. It's cost over sixteen thousand Euros but it's your money.”

  “Thanks Andre.”

  “You owe me a favour.”

  “Sure. Oh, one more thing. If I pay double can it get me there quicker. Like a short-cut?”

  “It's not a bloody taxi!”

  “It is really!” She giggled as she sat in the first taxi in the taxi rank and smiled at the driver. “Bromma van-ligen.”

  He smiled at her Swedish, but understood what she wanted. Ten minutes later she was walking into the city's second airport and an hour later was in the air, speeding towards England and her date with Ricky.

  Chapter XC

  Jack

  Jack's walk around the centre of Stockholm, brightly lit and kaleidoscopic, was dotted with fans requests for autographs.

  He indulged many before slipping into the shadows along the river. Anonymous, he was just another tourist in the Swedish capital and he sat outside a coffee shop, a latte warming his hands.

  It gave him time to think. Paige and him had spoken very little about their baby. He had accompanied her to the hospital for scans but she had dealt with every major decision by herself. She wanted it that way. She wanted to be independent but it had left him feeling isolated.

  His phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller and rejected their agent; Andre could wait. Jack wanted to be alone and enjoy the freedom of tranquillity. He watched the river birds as they made a final trip along the river before night. He watched the city of revellers laughing and enjoying the vibrancy of life as they crossed the foot bridge. He watched Stockholm go past.