The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  ‘Hi, ladies, I’m just packing …’ I said as they came into the room.

  Without warning, Busty shoved her tongue in my mouth and began kissing me while Booty began biting at my neck. My eyes popped out of my head. I didn’t have much control over things as the voice in my head was jumping for joy. After what felt like an age of kissing later, Busty asked, ‘So what’s your name?’ in the sexiest broken English accent.

  ‘Jay,’ I said, gasping for air. My heart was thumping so loudly with excitement, I was sure they could hear it too.

  ‘So what do you do?’ asked Booty, in an equally sexy voice.

  I thought it was a trick question, seeing as they’d seen me filming.

  ‘I work for The Beat,’ I said.

  They began whispering in a foreign language. My slightly drunken mind suddenly got paranoid, thinking, Is this going to end like the urban myth, where one of my kidneys gets farmed out of me?

  ‘So where’s the afterparty?’ asked Busty, running her fingernails gently across my neck.

  ‘This is the afterparty,’ I said, trying to stay cool.

  They began kissing me again, their hands running all over me and this time a hand went into my boxer shorts.

  ‘No, the after afterparty,’ asked Booty more sharply.

  I was confused. ‘The after afterparty?’

  Did they want to go back to my hotel room? Had I just hit the jackpot? Was I having an out of body experience? Hold on, was I Pritz? Do as he does, I thought.

  ‘I know the promoter so I’m sure he has something planned,’ I said hurriedly. They began whispering again and then pushed me to the wall in the far corner of the room and unzipped my jeans.

  ‘No promises, though,’ I said, suddenly enjoying acting like Pritz for the first time in my life. As soon as I’d said that, they tried even harder to get a promise out of me. They did. Twice.

  We agreed to meet by the bar as I began to put the kit away. They giggled drunkenly and left the room as they’d come into it, knocking over bottles, crates and the fire extinguisher. The door slammed behind them as I shoved things into any available space with the aim of keeping my buzz going and getting back out into the party. I wanted to see the look on everyone’s faces as I walked up to the Universal table like a pimp, with a blonde on each arm.

  As I got to the closed door and went to turn the door handle, I missed, causing me to lean forward and headbutt the door. I looked down at the door handle to find I wasn’t that drunk – it actually wasn’t there. I stood staring at the door as everything clicked into place.

  The fire extinguisher that now lay by my feet was used to keep the door open so it didn’t lock, not to let light in. This wasn’t the type of lock-in I wanted to be a part of. I looked around for anything to open it. Nothing. I tried shouting over the loud music for help. Nothing. I looked at my phone to call the others. No reception.

  I was itching to get out, not just because of the blondes and the amazing party but because I was enjoying the best buzz ever. It was time to blow the lid off the excitement that had been building up for days. It felt like I was beginning to taste the aura PJ was talking about, but it was hard to tell from behind a locked door.

  In between swigs of vodka, I kept the pleas for help going. I refused to let the buzz die away. I even got up and danced in the room alone. But when I realized how pathetic the night had become, I collapsed in a heap, feeling miserable. There were now just fifteen minutes to go until the official end of the party and I was stuck in a damp-smelling storage room alone, wondering why my friends hadn’t come to find me.

  As I hugged my vodka bottle the door flung open and a waiter looked at me with surprise. I didn’t stop to thank him, I just raced past him to freedom. As I got out into the hall, the party was winding down and the standard of girls had dropped. I assumed all the pretty ones had been thrown over shoulders and taken away. The ‘quarter to three’ slim pickings were left. I raced to the bar, but Busty and Booty were gone. I ran to the VIP section to find the others where I’d left them, drinking.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Stuey as I ran up to them.

  I was about to go into a long speech about how they’d left me locked in the storage room but suddenly thought better of it. ‘So where’s this after afterparty I’ve been hearing about?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s upstairs in one of the big suites,’ said PJ.

  ‘So what are we doing here then?’ I asked.

  ‘Waiting for you. Leave no man behind, seen?’ said Stuey.

  ‘Where’s Tola?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s gone to her room slightly drunk. OK, very drunk,’ said James III.

  ‘OK, well let’s go then,’ I said, itching to party.

  ‘What about the kit?’ asked James III.

  ‘It’s safe. No one goes into that room,’ I said.

  Upstairs we entered a darkened suite, with the only light coming from behind the DJ booth. The choice crowd from the VIP section had been cut down so only the VVIPs had made it in. This was where the paparazzi would have had a field day. It was where the unreported juicy gossip happened and artists could really let their guard down. There were glass tables laid out with bottles of champagne and buckets of ice as the feel of a nightclub was brought into the suite.

  We joined the promoter on one of his tables, ready to party till the early hours. It was surreal. There were celebrities two metres to my left, to my right and in front of me. The place was full of good-looking women who I was sure hadn’t been downstairs, they were even better looking. I glanced around but Busty and Booty hadn’t made the cut.

  As the music bumped loud through the speakers I saw myriad colours enveloping those around me. Forget Miami, Vegas, the numerous Beat parties, the exclusive events we were invited to, the award ceremonies, the press junkets abroad and all the other things I’d experienced … this was it. There was no way Pritz or anyone else would believe it because even I didn’t believe it. These were the moments PJ talked about being privileged to see, and here I was. Average Joe was sleeping in bed while we were living it up.

  As we danced around our table PJ turned and spoke to me. ‘So now can you smell it?’ he asked, drinking straight from a bottle of Moët.

  I laughed, then nodded towards the half Venezuelan, half Dutch girl he was dancing with. ‘So I see you’re not that upset about missing out on Her then?’

  ‘Jay, the thing is, you have to continue to believe in tomorrow despite the setbacks.’ He smiled and then joined in the screaming as Common’s ‘The Light’ dropped.

  We didn’t get any sleep that morning, instead going straight to our rooms and then on to the airport with our luggage and some serious hangovers. As we all waited to board at the gate, we recognized most of the passengers as either Beat staff or artists. They had the same things in common – an obvious lack of sleep, dark sunglasses and sore heads. At times you couldn’t tell who was staff and who was a star. On the plane back to London, everyone was catching up on the gossip from the awards and the afterparty. Some of it was run-of-the-mill, like the woman from Online hooking up with the drummer of a band, but some was more salacious, like the member of senior management who was reportedly seen going into a hotel room with a teenager.

  As we landed, the pilot came on to the tannoy system. ‘This is Captain Curtis Jackson, I’d like to welcome you to London Heathrow. The time now is 11.56 a.m. As we taxi to the gate may I remind you to remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the seat belt sign is switched off … Finally a message from PJ to The Beat crew – well done on the awards last night. See you all next year.’

  The plane erupted in applause and a communal ‘Waaa-haaay!’

  As everyone jumped into their Uncle Lee cabs home, I had to go straight to the edit and drop the tapes off to be readied for the next day. My work was just beginning, as Stuey and I had to deliver Total BEATS for a special one-off Sunday night transmi
ssion.

  We began at seven a.m. in the Soho edit suites the following day. After working all day we continued through the night and the next day into Sunday evening. It seemed like a lot of time to make an hour-long show, but with all the footage we’d shot it wasn’t. I’d already warned the broadcasting engineers we’d be cutting it really fine, delivering the tape for a transmission at eight p.m.

  By seven thirty p.m. the show was finished and I jumped straight into a waiting Uncle Lee that took me to Notting Hill where the show was played live from the tape. It was close but we’d made it. I sat in the Greenhouse and watched the show go out on the huge TV screen, eating a packet of cheesy Doritos.

  As the credits ran at the end of the show a now-familiar sense of pride jolted through me as my name came on for two seconds and the show eventually faded to black. Then one last vox-pop came on. It was Her.

  ‘PJ. I’m sorry I kept missing you at the awards. I waited for you but you were nowhere to be seen. Maybe we can do it again when I’m next in London. Hopefully I’m worth the chase. [Blows kiss.]’

  Moments later my phone rang. ‘I knew it would be you,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘When did you get that?’ he said like an excited child.

  I laughed again. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘So who was it?’ he asked.

  ‘I found it when I was editing. Our cheerleader did well!’

  ‘I owe her an apology. Tola deserves a promotion to three-star general for going beyond the call of duty.’ He paused for a while, then added, ‘You see, Jay, the man who persists in knocking will succeed in entering.’

  44

  Run On

  ‘Come and sit down. I’m just waiting for someone to join us,’ said the Minister in a serious tone, pointing at the chair in front of his desk. The last time I’d been sitting here, he was taking chunks out of me for something I didn’t do.

  The Beat’s Sunday night schedule had been dedicated to the awards and the ratings had been the best for the year. Not only did Total BEATS lead the way but the show had been namechecked in the mainstream press for our exclusive footage of the afterparty.

  People from different parts of the company had sent emails congratulating us all for a great show. I walked through the office like a star player instead of the sub from the bench.

  But suddenly I felt uneasy in the Minister’s presence. He wasn’t exactly being warm, but then again when was he ever? Was he about to highlight a mistake, an oversight, a failure? Was the Duke about to come and tell me off for filming in Artists’ Catering?

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I was just on the phone,’ said the Doc, dropping into the chair next to me.

  ‘No problem, I was just sending an email,’ said the Minister.

  What is he doing here? I wondered, immediately even more worried.

  ‘Jay, we’ll get to the point,’ said the Doc. ‘It’s about your show from the other night. Terry?’ he said, letting my boss take the floor.

  Oh no, here it comes …

  ‘The Doc watched the show and he feels you’re deserving of an on-the-spot bonus for your hard work,’ the Minister said with a big smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ I responded, more shocked that the Minister was being so nice than about the bonus.

  ‘Stuart Johns has also been acknowledged,’ he added.

  ‘The press coverage will go on for days. That’s exactly what we need: people talking about what we do. The gossip, the drama, the controversy, it all makes us relevant,’ said the Doc.

  ‘This has really helped in the ratings war,’ added the Minister.

  I looked over at the Doc who beamed with pride as the Minister continued saying nice things about me. Was he finally seeing me as a valuable member of his team and not an annoyance? Had I turned him?

  I sat feeling proud of the whole team but especially of myself. This was proof that all I had worked tirelessly for that year was worth it. The permanent position was now within reach and I was still in the race. I’d made the chequered-flag lap, albeit with a flat tyre, a smashed front wing and a burnt-out engine letting off flames. The championship that had started way back in April had turned out to be less Formula One, more ‘Wacky Races’.

  ‘Terry, you must be proud that this has come from your department. Well done to you for your vision, of course.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Doctor Hewson,’ said the Minister, smiling.

  Trust you to take all the glory, I thought to myself. You didn’t even know what we were doing out there.

  Soon the Doc was gliding down the walkway, meeting the troops on one of his regular ‘walk and talks’ that he said allowed him to feel the heartbeat of the company.

  I sat there looking at the Minister. He looked uncomfortable but quickly brushed it aside. ‘You can run on now.’

  I got back to my desk and read two great emails. The first was from Marianne Stevens waxing lyrical about the Usher show I’d produced for the website. The second was from HR confirming my bonus – £1,000! Finally I could take back from Pritz some of the IOU slips I’d given him, signed on Monopoly money until I could pay him. What’s more, I’d proved several people wrong and brought my boss on side.

  ‘What you smiling about?’ asked James III.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t want the other interns to feel I was showing off. ‘How about a rendition of “Joy to the World”?’

  He gave me a strange look. ‘You asking for that makes me worry for your state of mind,’ he joked, then happily obliged.

  I didn’t have time to rejoice for long. I had to stay late to pull tapes, write scripts and prepare interviews for the next show. There was still a ratings war to win. Eventually, by ten thirty p.m., I couldn’t go on any longer, feeling like a hamster running forever on a wheel. Pritz had texted me: he wanted to head out to a club and I felt I deserved to celebrate and rub his nose in my latest achievements. I grabbed my rucksack and left through the revolving doors on to the rain-soaked street.

  With a spring in my step I headed towards the station. It was peacefully quiet except for the sound of a car door closing. I was just about to put my headphones on when the silence was broken again by two thuds. One was a punch to the back of my head and the other was my head smacking the bumper of a car as I crashed to the ground.

  45

  Beat It

  I lay with my eyes shut, feeling exhausted and out of it. Which would have been acceptable if I was in bed. Unfortunately, I was lying on a rain-soaked street with my left ear pressed down flat in a puddle. I was sure I could hear the ocean. My right ear was ringing like it was four a.m. and I’d spent the night standing by a speaker at the Ministry of Sound. I could barely make out any other sounds except far-off traffic and what sounded like Charlie Brown’s mumbling teacher standing over me.

  I slowly opened my eyes to make sense of it, but everything was blurry and out of focus like a scene from a poncy French film. Water from the puddle filled my left eye while rain poured into the right one. As I squinted, all I could see was the deep darkness of the night sky and a streetlight nearby. A heavy-breathing dark shadow began to hover around me, occasionally blocking out the light. I blinked, trying to clear my vision again but everything remained out of focus. Despite my situation I was quite comfortable, like a drunkard on a street corner after a heavy night out. At least that’s what I was thinking until I got kicked in my ging-gangs.

  It was a direct connection – a full swing, the correct trajectory with controlled acceleration driving through to the tender point of contact. Kudos to the kicker. It was as sweet a connection as David Beckham famously lobbing the Wimbledon goalkeeper from the halfway line. Instantly I felt a heavily concentrated pain in my groin. My body collapsed inward as I went into the foetal position, both hands instinctively diving down to protect my crown jewels. The last time I felt it this bad was in primary school when a hard leather football did the damage and I’d slowly
, yet hysterically, cried ‘Mummy’. I barely suppressed the need to do it again now.

  Adrenalin quickly spread through my veins as my body fell into deep shock. It was such a fierce blow, I could feel my pulse beating heavily in my groin. The pain shot straight up my torso but got lodged between my stomach and diaphragm as I tensed every muscle in my body to try and contain it there. If I didn’t relax soon, I’d black out. The need for oxygen quickly took priority as I opened my mouth and gasped for air, except my lungs didn’t respond. Instead my mouth filled with puddle water, grit, oil and possibly, almost definitely, canine and human excrement. My tastebuds reacted quickly to reject it, but in reflex I swallowed instead of spitting. The cold mix sloshed about inside me as I gagged repeatedly.

  I felt more blows from a clenched fist and boot on my shin, chest, shoulder and head but the pain was nothing in comparison to the constant throbbing between my legs. Completely worn out, I made no noise as each swing connected. I just lay still, hoping my attacker would eventually give up too.

  The blows finally stopped, along with the aggressive grunting with each effort. My normal hearing gradually started to return and I listened to the rainwater running into the street drain near my head. Moments later, it was replaced by a gravelly sound of someone clearing their nose and hawking in their throat, followed by a thick spitting noise. The warm phlegm landed directly on my cheek, accompanied by my attacker’s parting words: ‘Not such a big man now, are you, Mr Beat?’

  46

  Blowin’ in the Wind

  I felt wet when I regained consciousness. Have I just pissed myself? I thought. Instead I opened my eyes to see I was totally drenched by rain, lying in the street outside work.

  I came round to the surreal sight of the members of the Fugees standing over me.