A Snowball in Hell

by Christopher Brookmyre

  It was dangerously distracting, and furthermore, it was self-deceiving too. The ideas he unconsciously set in motion before he could act to derail them called for things he could not ask her to give, sacrifices he would not ask her to make; not least because he could not put her through the awkwardness of her inevitable refusal, which would be made all the harder for her by any sense of debt or obligation his present actions might engender.

  They had been together again a couple of days. It was hardly a laugh riot, with Angelique understandably withdrawn into her own worries, but she seemed content to listen to him talking about himself. He had yammered away, often prompted by her specific queries, about how he found his new career, about Morrit and Lizzie, about his dad’s professional legacy, about how he evaded Fleet, and about the offers beckoning him to move on. However, she didn’t ask him why he never showed up at the Musée d’Orsay. It didn’t take him long to deduce that this was due to her not knowing he hadn’t – because she never showed up either.

  Zal made a life of fooling people, but he couldn’t fool himself. The illusionist has to have the most disciplined respect for immutable reality; nonetheless it didn’t stop it hurting, couldn’t stop him dreaming.

  He has to restrain himself from kissing her once she has freed herself from the trunk, in the process waving his offered assistance away as quite unnecessary.

  There has been no reprise of what happened in the dressing room, and no discussion of it either. It’s not so much that they are pretending it didn’t happen, more a mutual acknowledgement that it’s something they can’t afford to deal with right now.

  Angelique is clutching a manila folder, a look of ominous concern on her face sufficient to suggest the file has a portent she is unsure how to express. Either that or the goddamn thing was useless.

  ‘You get what you were hoping for?’ Zal asks. ‘Is there a headshot?’

  ‘There’s a post-surgery photo, yes, but that’s not the only artwork. I think this file also contains the bigger picture.’

  She hands him a single page from the folder, pointing to an official stamp stating Department d’Oncologie.

  ‘You’ll have to help me with my French,’ Zal tells her. ‘What does it say?’

  Angelique swallows, clears her throat.

  ‘It says Simon Darcourt is dying.’

  III

  The Perfume of Heroic Deeds

  Living will

  So how do you like them fucking apples?

  All those jobs, all those hits, all those years, and I never once saw a death warrant in the form of a dossier in a manila folder like you see in the movies. Yet that was my cue to commence my current project: an A4-size file, containing every detail I needed, complete with ten-by-eight photographs. Small scale, really: single subject, just one individual who had to die, and it would be hard to find anyone who’d argue that this fucker didn’t have it coming.

  Get it now?

  Lymphoma. Haematological malignancy. Inoperable. Inexorable.

  Lots of harsh little words, not much in the way of wiggle-room or interpretation. Here’s two more: twelve months. Have to laugh at that, don’t you? The standard figure from the classic ‘doctor, doctor’ joke, or the set-up for a thousand hypothetical questions.

  ‘You have twelve months to live. Comme ci, comme ça. Maybe more, maybe less.’

  Can I have a second opinion?

  ‘Yes. You’re a cunt as well.’

  Can’t argue with that diagnosis. Let me be honest enough to admit that it would be, to say the least, inappropriate to whine about the injustice of it all. I’m not expecting any sympathy cards or floral bouquets, no messages of support from wellwishers who ‘know I’m a fighter’. However, it does change people’s attitudes, quite unavoidably. Once they find out about this, they’ll know I’m racing for pinks. In fact, it’s very hard to imagine a more compelling motivator to get your shit together and make one final, telling contribution, to carve out an indelible legacy for the world to remember you by.

  The time has come to put my affairs in order.

  * * *

  Amazing what death, or even the imminent threat of it, can do to your reputation, never mind your profile. It put Four Play back on the top of the charts, for a start. Best career move they ever made, getting into that limo. A number-one single, a new, repackaged Greatest Hits album complete with said new ‘classic’ rescued from its filler-track purgatory and given the profound status of valedictory closing number, plus nothing but fond memories in the collective unconscious. Damaged septums excised from the picture more thoroughly than any cosmetic surgeon’s scalpel could have managed; hookers, infidelities, catfights, contested paternities and date-rape accusations forgiven and forgotten.

  Isn’t it grand, boys, to be bloody well dead?

  Can’t see it working for me, unfortunately, though I’d like to think a few folk might rise above the hypocrisy enough to raise a private glass in recognition of one or two of my achievements of which they secretly approved. Not that it will be bothering me where I’m headed.

  But you don’t even need to have snuffed it for the eulogising to begin. Look how much love is coming the way of poor wee Anika since Sally turned up alive and deductive assumptions were made about second prize. Assumption number one is that it was Anika who got second prize. Doesn’t look that way to me, though. Sally is a star now, unimaginably more famous than her silly dance routines, pouty posturing and bratty precociousness could ever have made her, but I’ve turned Anika into a goddess.

  Anika’s past indiscretions have been effectively expunged from public record, and the two-faced, back-stabbing ruthlessness with which she secured her berth in Vogue 2.2 transmuted into ‘drive’, ‘ambition’, ‘spark’ and even ‘a go-getting lust for success that we would do well to instil in this lacklustre generation of unmotivated youth’. But it’s not just that her past can no longer be used to taint her: nor can her future. She’s an ideal, an icon for people to project on to without fear of the reality spoiling the effect. Everybody loves her now, because there’s nothing she can do to get on anybody’s tits. She can’t run off at the mouth and say something that will alienate anybody who disagrees with it. She can’t betray her semi-literate ignorance of the written word as it exists beyond Now magazine. She can’t let slip some racial or homophobic epithet that would bring down instant condemnation or call into question the values and attitudes she was raised with.

  She’s Princess Diana. She’s Grace Kelly. She’s Marilyn Monroe. No, she’s greater than all of them, because unlike her goddess predecessors, her worshippers are about to be given the chance to bring her back.

  Much as it would ordinarily make me sick, this eulogising was in fact music to my ears. With every word of it that was spoken or printed, she became an ever more precious commodity when, yesterday, I revealed that she was still alive. Alive and looking well, in fact, compared to recently, and certainly compared to Sally, who seems to be finding the spotlight a little harsh since she discovered there’s no way to turn it off.

  Anika’s been moved to a new room with en suite facilities, toiletries, fresh clothes, a microwave and a fridge full of food. There’s even – tantalisingly – a telly, which precipitated a real-life Wacky Races rally event as competing outside-broadcast vehicles rushed to reach her family and friends to relay messages of love and support. Sky News scooped the grand prix with Mummy and Baby Sis, ITN the silver with estranged Dad, and shame on the slowcoach Beeb, who trundled home with the consolation prize of Nell Devereaux, Vogue 2.2’s publicist, which was a bit like getting a wank from a nymphomaniac.

  It was all terribly fucking poignant, wasn’t it? I was almost filling up myself once or twice. Heart-rending stuff, especially the way everyone’s initial relief gave way to the horrible understanding that her ordeal wasn’t over. Yes, thank God, she was still alive, but the question remained, as the Sky reporter underlined live from outside Mummy’s Bromley semi: ‘What sick game might Simon Darcourt mak
e her play next?’

  What indeed.

  Well, I’m not going to tell you just yet, because I’m still in the business of assembling her new playmates: an all-celebrity line-up.

  Our first stop is in a luxuriantly verdant and paparazzi-deterringly secluded enclave near Cheltenham. As we pull up at the electronic security gates of a substantial mock-Tudor villa set in several acres of landscaped gardens, and bordered on all sides by privacy-ensuring arbour, allow me to put on my best Loyd Grossman accent and ask: Who lives here?

  The answer is none other than Chelsea centre-half and England captain, Gary ‘Nails’ Nailor: winner of thirty-eight caps, two Player of the Year awards, two FA Cups and two Championships, but more significantly, possessor of one trophy that has ensured more column inches than all that silverware combined, in the shape of WAG almighty, Charlotte Westwood.

  Nails might have commanded an eighteen-million-pound transfer from boyhood heroes West Ham and an image-rights deal that has his face earning serious coin both for and from Pepsi, Nike, Vodafone, Gillette and Sony, to name only five, but the boy’s a fucking hermit compared to his missus. ‘Champagne’ Charlotte these days, when she’s not guesting on any chat show, celebrity cook programme, celebrity dance programme, celebrity property programme, celebrity quiz programme, celebrity auction programme and celebrity relationship-advice programme that will have her, and when she is not being snapped for magazines coming in and out of upmarket eateries, Knightsbridge designer boutiques, West End film premieres and launch parties for products she officially endorses, can be found in the other pages of said magazines and in the breaks between the above TVshows, advertising everything from her own perfume, toiletry range and poseable dolls, to hair products, make-up, yoghurt drinks, chocolate and women’s razors: electric and conventional. She has an agony column in one tabloid, a picture-led diary in the colour supplement of the Sunday edition of another, a ghost-written autobiography in the top ten and a workout DVD launching in the summer.

  Not bad for a finishing-school dropout with a single O-level to her name (in Arithmetic, no doubt handy for counting the money). Didn’t hurt that she’s a looker, whose trust fund bought her a flash enough wardrobe to get her into the right parties, where she met the emergent young football heart-throb with whom she was to embark on a fairytale romance that was the stuff tabloid dreams are made of.

  I’m not talking about Nails, by the way, though you’d be forgiven if you’ve forgotten. No, in her bid for the celebrity stratosphere, the first booster rocket to Champagne Charlotte’s space shuttle was Keiran Kelly, the nineteen-year-old Bolton Wanderers winger whose flowing blond tresses were about all most defenders saw as he skinned them on the way to the byline. The only people coveting him more than a million dreaming teen princesses were the managers (football almost as much as marketing) who wanted him on their clubs’ books. His twelve-million-pound move to Man United consecrated his and Charlotte’s places among the elite of their respective fields, but Charlotte’s long-term prospects turned out to be less susceptible to ligament damage. ‘Special K’, as he used to be known, had his career effectively wrecked by a late tackle against Middlesbrough; so late, in fact, that Keiran would have sworn he was still in a relationship with Charlotte Westwood when he took the ball past the full-back.

  When the doctors announced that he wouldn’t be able to play the game to professional level again, she shouldered the responsibilities that any WAG worth her salt knew were imperative upon her: ie she fucked off and found the next rising star – those responsibilities being to her own career and to an expectant media. Played it very cute too, making herself look like the one who deserved sympathy even as she ditched this poor fucker in his hour of greatest need, by leaking a slew of ‘My secret hell with Keiran the love-cheat’ stories to herald the break-up: material she must have been sitting on for use in emergency. She knew that, with the exception of the paper to which Keiran sold his side of the story, the media would spin it her way, because she had a big future selling their newspapers, and Keiran had a future selling insurance. She came out of it not only smelling of roses, but more high-profile and alluringly eligible than ever, perfectly placed to browse the form book and take her pick of the field. She put her money on a more robust thoroughbred, trained at Upton Park but recently stabled at Stamford Bridge, and it turned out he was a performer over long distance. Consequently, she has become the most ubiquitously visible female in the country: inestimably wealthy, indiscreetly lusted after, covetously aspired towards, inexplicably (but quite indisputably) popular and, this morning, expecting me.

  I know. How ever did I swing it? What you wouldn’t give etc etc.

  Well, I called ahead. Makes all the difference. Called her personal publicist, anyway. It’s true Charlotte’s a busy and important lady, but for all of that, she is still happy to give her time for an appeal, particularly if it is an appeal to her insatiable appetite for maximum-exposure, guaranteed-positive publicity.

  ‘I realise this is very short notice,’ I said to her publicist, a conspicuously trying-too-hard female going by the ostentatiously absurd name of Fizzy Brill (real name Philippa Brylle-Havilland; Papa led the Hestbury Hunt until the animal rights Khmer Rouge got their way). I gave my name as Gavin Aldlake, from a production company called Azimuth; told her we mostly made arts documentaries for BBC Four, which ensured neither she nor Charlotte would be familiar enough with the field as to wonder why they’d never heard of us. ‘But I think you’ll understand once I explain the circumstances. We’ve been subcontracted to put together a package of support and solidarity messages for Anika, to go out across all channels. I don’t know if you’ve heard [yeah, right], but she’s now got a television wherever she’s being—’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  I thought for half a second that she was merely confirming she knew about Anika’s smart new Sony, but in fact this was her already agreeing to the proposition. I reckon it’s fair to say it thus: I had her at ‘all channels’.

  ‘See, we want Anika to know that everybody’s thinking of her, especially other celebrities, and Charlotte’s, if she’s happy to do it, would be the first message.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll do it,’ Fizzy asserted with absolute confidence, before adding, ‘I mean, Charlotte’s been very disturbed by all of this. I think any way she could help out would mean a lot to her.’

  ‘I really appreciate this. And I really do stress, the word here is solidarity, not just support or thoughts or good wishes. This is about celebrities showing that they won’t be bowed by what’s been going on, that they won’t be made afraid to be famous.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. I mean, Charlotte and I were talking about this recently: this Darko guy, it’s like he’s attacking celebrity itself.’

  ‘Well, the fightback starts here.’

  ‘You bet. I’ll just check Charlotte’s schedule for tomorrow. She is planning to be in London anyway; are you in Soho?’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all. We’ll come to her. This is a ten-minute job, two lines to camera. She can do it literally on her way out of the house.’

  ‘Even better. When can we expect you?’

  I slide down the window on the limo and speak into the intercom. A few seconds later, the electronic gate withdraws behind the wall and I drive on, stopping just inside. The gate has an anti-crush sensor, so a piece of tape saves me the slightly messier job of cutting the power line. There is a small CCTV camera pointed at the car; it’s unlikely to be connected to recording equipment, but I’ve got my peaked cap angled down and my shades on anyway.

  They’re waiting for me on the front steps as my limo crunches the ochre chips: Fizzy, the good lady herself and a third female, who turns out to be her hair-and-make-up artist, called in at this early hour because it’s for telly. There’s also a bloke in sweatpants and a t-shirt whose status remains ambiguous: he’s either her minder or her personal trainer. He doesn’t do or say anything anyway, just hovers around in the background folding his
arms in a manner conspicuously intended to emphasise his musculature.

  Charlotte and Fizzy both look a little confused when it’s only the driver who emerges from the limo, but are instantly reassured by the sight of a video-camera and tripod under my arm.

  ‘Yeah, it’s just me. I’m Gavin,’ I explain, briefly shaking a few hands amid the operation of setting up the tripod. ‘We’re stretched a little thin, what with some of the celebrities we’ve asked being fairly scattered about the country. My assistant, Scot, has been dispatched all the way to Inverness because that’s where Gordon Ramsay is today.’

  They like this. Gordon Ramsay being in the package is a favourable endorsement of the production’s celeb calibre, but the fact that someone more junior has been assigned to him goes down even better.

  ‘The thing is, it’s aesthetically ideal to be doing it this way, because we’re going for a kind of low-fi, docu-style verisimilitude feel. Makes it seem more immediate, more real.’

  Charlotte nods approval, though I’m guessing it’s the first time she’s heard the word ‘verisimilitude’.

  ‘All I need is essentially two shots. One of you just walking up and climbing into the back seat of this limo. Then an interior; as you can see, there’s a camera already set up on the dashboard. That’s why I’m in this outfit. I won’t be directly in shot, just on the periphery. Don’t know if Fizzy explained, but—’