by Max Frick
heavily stained the carpet in several places. The armchair cushion and back were also stained, and crude red handprints, reminiscent of a child’s schoolroom artwork, were daubed on either arm. Smears of blood were clearly visible on the couch too, and from a splatter low on the wall, beside a CD player at the back of the room, thick dark drops had trickled down and extended left and right along the skirting.
In the near left-hand corner, still connected to the mains, a television, exposing its scant innards, was lying smashed screen upwards behind its stand. Again spots of blood flecked the wall beside it and traces were discernible on the jagged corners of the broken grey glass.
The officer paused, scarcely able to envision the savagery that had occurred here.
Immediately in front of him a small upturned table had spilled its contents onto the floor. Various pharmacological agents – powder, pills and resin – both within and without small resealable clear plastic bags, were mingled with assorted related paraphernalia – cigarette papers, cigarettes, lighters and loose tobacco. An upside down ashtray half covered a credit card – a platinum American Express credit card – and the officer, flicking the ashtray aside with the toe of his boot, cocked his head for a better look. ‘R. Watson’ read the signature.
‘Hmm?’
And then, of course, there were the two probable perpetrators. Suspect number one was absent-mindedly tracing random patterns with his finger in what looked from here like vomit, while suspect number two lay sound asleep foetus-like on the couch with his hands tucked contentedly between his thighs. Blood liberally stained the clothing, and smeared the skin, of both young men.
On the floor beyond the armchair was an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, angular and ungainly, and one, two… six photographs. The elder constable gave his subordinate a nudge, and, with blatant disregard for copybook procedure, despatched him to retrieve one of them. This brought the young policeman within close proximity to his first dead body and he could not resist a closer look. At first he seemed puzzled, narrowing his eyes as though he were not quite sure what it was that he was looking at. His eyes suddenly widened. The shocking realisation blanched his rosy cheeks. Quickly snatching up a photograph he returned it with trembling hand to his superior, who, curios to know, yet none too keen to see, what had so disturbed his underling, took a moment to study it.
It appeared to show, in washed out colour, an unlawful sexual act taking place between two partially dressed males. The dominant male (clearly identifiable from his clothing as suspect number two) was kneeling behind his seemingly unconscious “partner” (presumably the deceased, vaguely familiar) who, positioned on all fours, was having his head pulled roughly upwards and backwards by the hair.
‘Sir’, ventured the young policeman. ‘I think you should take a look at the body. But brace yourself!’
And this, with a degree of outward composure bordering on suavity, and a far higher degree of inner trepidation, his mentor now did.
With a sweep of his foot he scraped aside an assortment of litter from the right shoulder of the corpse and crouched before it. At a swish of his hand flies, like a flock of startled birds, took off, and frantically described figures of eight low above their carrion. A swish back scattered them further.
It, he, lay unseeing, eyes staring ceiling-wards. The left arm was trapped beneath its, his back, the right, palm-upwards by his side. His trousers had been pulled down and were gathered in folds, unfastened, around the calves; the legs were crossed at the ankles. He was not wearing any underwear. A puddle of thick, dark, coagulating blood, that had spilled from a deep gash in the head, now formed a sort of thin pillow beneath it. The officer had seen instantly the cause of his colleague’s distress and the same strong feelings of perturbation gripped him now (though he was determined not to let them show). Part of the face was missing. The mouth hung open slightly and the whole right cheek, from just below the eye socket down to the lower jaw bone, and from the nose back to the ear, had been torn off. Raw flesh hung in ragged shreds around the dark cavity, and two half rows of top and bottom teeth, yellowing towards the molars, were exposed.
As he affected to coolly examine the body...
‘Extensive bruising, mm-hmm. Possible fractured skull, ah-ha. Are those teeth marks?’
...the officer was all the while racking his brain for some light-hearted, flippant remark that would, he thought, corroborate his outward calm; something glib and wholly inappropriate, of the type that springs so readily to the minds of his fictional counterparts under similar circumstances. None was forthcoming and he retreated to his original position at the door, where he rejoined his companion, took a moment to compose himself and began to question the suspect.
‘Okay, son, what’s your name?’
‘Billy. Billy Wilson.’
‘Okay, Billy, what’s through the back there?’
The officer nodded towards the doorway at the back of the room.
‘Em, two bedrooms and a bathroom.’
‘Is there anybody in there?’
‘No.’
‘And through there?’ he said, nodding towards the door to his left. ‘Kitchen, right?’
‘Aye.’
‘Is there anybody in there?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Now, who’s this?’
With a flick of his head this time the officer indicated the couch.
‘Tony. Tony Drake. Do you want me to wake him up for you?’
The officer paused.
‘I’ll ask the questions son. He’s fine where he is for the time being. And who’s that?’
Another flick indicated the body.
‘Ryan Watson.'
The officer paused again, this time to scrutinize the face of his interviewee.
‘Don’t mess about, son! You’re in a lot of trouble here. Who is that?’
‘It’s Ryan Watson.’
‘It’s Ryan Watson?’
‘Aye.’
‘Thee Ryan Watson?’
‘Aye.’
‘The Ryan Watson who’s currently topping the charts with “Just One Of The Lads”, his fourth consecutive number one single, as a solo artist?’
‘Aye.’
The junior officer leaned in towards his superior and stated in a half-whisper that he, Watson, was thought to have been abducted from the local discotheque late last night.
‘Okaayyy! And where’s the rest of his face?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
The officer, silent now, continued to stare at the suspect for a moment, then switched his gaze towards the body. Perhaps he was weighing the truth of the young man’s statements. Or perhaps he was vainly trying to reconcile the image of the pop star - so energetic, so full of fun and mischief as he sang and danced in his music videos - with the wretched, lifeless, mutilated form before him.
‘Oh, my god! This could be it! This could be the one that gets me noticed! I’d better get this next bit right in case the papers want to quote me verbatim. Okay, I need a strong opening to set the tone – “Right Billy, listen to me…” – That’s good. I like that. Now, be stylish – “Bombsite, slaughterhouse, you and sleeping beauty here” – nice! Right, mention the facts – the neighbours, the photographs – but don’t let them impede the rhythm. Then, dramatic finish – “I think, you’d better…” Perfect!’
He turned back to the suspect.
‘Right, Billy, listen to me. Your flat looks like a cross between a bombsite and a slaughterhouse; there are enough drugs on the floor to put you and sleeping beauty here away for a considerable period of time; your neighbours are queuing up to testify against you, and I’m holding in my hand photographic evidence of enforced homosexual intercourse, while the victim, who just happens to be one of our most famous and highest earning celebrities, lies beneath your window, bloodied and battered to death, partially naked, with half of his face eaten away. I think you’d better tell me, in your own words, just exactly what happened here!’
2
> Fans vie with fans, journalists with journalists, journalists jostle fans and vice versa. Curious record buyers, attracted by such an undignified furore, are more than content to stand tiptoe on its fringes, peering over the heads of the feverish rabble to try to catch a glimpse of its focus. But it is the paparazzi – bloody-minded mercenaries, modern day bounty hunters with cameras in place of guns – who fight hardest for pole position. Their liberal use of high elbows and shunting shoulders turns the very front of the crowd into the spit and image of a mosh pit at the hardest of hard rock concerts. From their cameras a sustained battery of brilliant white flashes, though themselves instantaneous, captures the star for posterity in a strobe-like succession of attitudes: now, leaning casually back in his chair and of thoughtful mien, as at one as a king on his throne; now, first with one hand, then with both, clasping warmly, reassuringly, across the desk in front of him, the trembling hand of a flustered admirer; and now, with a fat magic marker poised an inch or two above a copy of his own CD, looking inquiringly up at that admirer for the name or names of the autographee, before lowering his head to write, signing with a flourish, in that bold, flowing hand of his, his own name – known now to all and sundry, from sea to shining sea – Drako. Photographs that will be ruthlessly auctioned off to the highest bidders and tomorrow adorn in full colour the covers and pages of the world’s popular press. And at a later date, in more artistic black and white, the self same photographs will
