by Louise Beech
Stephen returns with two steaming cups, glaring at me.
‘Lighten up,’ I sigh. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ll be selective.’
‘Hmmmm.’
‘Anyway, someone complained about you, too,’ I say, feeling annoyed with him.
‘About me?’
‘A woman called Chloe said you read the news too coldly.’
‘Oh.’
I feel bad, so add, ‘I told her you had to remain objective or else you’d never be able to do it.’
Stephen shrugs, looks sad. ‘She should be glad we’re the only local station to do our own news. I think people forget that we’re unique and that I put it together myself so it’s not the news everyone gets on bigger stations.’ He pauses. ‘And trust me, when I talk about Victoria it’s hard not to lose it. It’s really been on my mind recently. So horrible. She’d not even left home yet. And pregnant too. Did you see that in yesterday’s paper? She was wrapped in her coat, they said. Was the killer being protective or just a coward hiding what he’d done?’
Stephen searches in his laptop bag. Watching him, I’m tempted to ask him if I should share that a man called to say he knows who killed Victoria Valbon. That he says he was there. Should that be on the airwaves?
Stephen finally takes a large red envelope from the bag and hands it to me.
‘Anyway, there’s been a small development in her murder investigation,’ he finishes.
I stare at the envelope as though this new detail is contained inside it. My stomach flips over. I open the flap and pull out a large card with GOOD LUCK emblazoned across the front in gaudy gold letters. Inside all the presenters have written doodles and wished me well in my new endeavour/life/job.
I suddenly wonder if I’ve been completely stupid. What am I doing? These past weeks I’ve done so many things I’d never have imagined I would when I was small and staring out of my window.
And now Tom seems really unhappy with me and wants to talk.
I have such a bad feeling about it; my heart sinks.
‘I was at a press conference today,’ says Stephen, ‘so everyone will have the same info. It’s out of date really too.’
I close my card. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They told us only a few days ago that they interviewed her ex-boyfriend – ex-fiancé, actually, and father of her baby. But surely they must have interviewed him right at the start? Anyway, they were satisfied he wasn’t involved and won’t be questioning him further.’
‘I expected her baby’s father to be a prime suspect,’ I say, softly. ‘They always look close to home first.’
‘We can’t talk now.’ Stephen glances at my computer screen. ‘You’ve got thirty seconds until the adverts.’
‘I know.’ I hate when he takes over.
‘Secret Lover’ winds down. ‘That was Atlantic Starr, it’s five minutes past eleven, and you’re listening to WLCR.’ Then commercials.
‘Anyway,’ says Stephen. ‘They’re interviewing a new possible suspect. Not the ex. They’ve made it clear that no arrest has taken place, and that this person has gone to the station voluntarily, to help with their enquiries.’
‘They didn’t say who?’
‘No. I guess they must be getting closer. Her poor family must be frantic.’
I nod. It’s always the family that suffers when someone leaves.
‘I still wonder if it was random, though,’ says Stephen. ‘If there’s a murderer out there. Serial killers have to start somewhere – have a first – don’t they? I don’t let Deena walk anywhere alone after dark at the moment. I’ll be bloody glad when they catch the bastard, I tell you.’
‘Do you think they will?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘They have to, don’t they?’
‘Not necessarily. Think of all the unsolved murders. Missing people never found.’
‘I ’spose.’ He picks up his coffee. ‘What do you think happens to all the missing people?’
‘Well, it won’t be the same thing, will it?’ I laugh.
‘No. You’re right.’ He studies me. ‘Right I’m gonna go do my report upstairs. Be back just before midnight.’
The adverts finish. ‘If you have any song requests,’ I say, ‘don’t forget you can tweet me, message on Facebook, and text on the usual number. And if you love a particular track, tell me what dark reason lies behind it being a favourite. Personally, I love this next one. It’s The Weeknd and “I Feel It Coming.”’
And I play my life.
During the song, I fire a quick message off to Tom: Please just assure me we’re okay? I love you.
Then I leave my phone on the desk, so I’ll see if he responds. I sense him as though he is standing behind me. I often have this experience: it feels like he’s incredibly close – and more so when he’s actually far away. This is how we are bound. It’s more than the physical. I often hear his voice in my ear and turn, half expecting him to be there. I even feel his pain. There was one night, here at the studio, when my knee throbbed all evening. No painkiller could touch it. When I got home, Tom was lying on the sofa, his knee all bandaged up. He’d fallen down some steps at work. And I’d felt it.
I’d known.
I used to get that with my mum. I’d know on the way home from school if she’d been crying. I sometimes said a word just seconds before she did. At school once, my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. I got home, and hers looked red too. After she left, this gift faded. At first, I’d be sure that somewhere she was crying, at night. Then either she stopped, or I lost my link to her.
I can’t lose Tom too.
The radio phone flashes blue. I jump, still on edge. I’ve two minutes until the song ends.
‘Stella McKeever,’ I say.
‘It’s me again,’ she says. ‘Chloe.’
The woman who thinks Stephen Sainty reads the news coldly.
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘Don’t I usually help with that?’ I joke.
‘It’s not just the girl in the alley on my mind,’ she says. ‘No. Usually your show is relaxing, but tonight you’re different somehow. Like there’s a different … energy.’
Is she right? Stephen said a woman turned me off tonight.
‘And you’ve got me thinking about secrets,’ says Chloe.
‘One you want to share?’ I ask.
‘God, no. But I do think you should be careful. They can destroy everything when they come out.’
‘Are you speaking from experience?’
She ignores the question. ‘People unburden themselves, make out they’re doing the right thing. But they should shut the hell up because they’re only doing it to relieve their own guilt.’ I wonder what terrible revelation ruined her life. ‘Keep it to yourself, is all I can say. We don’t want to know.’
I can’t think of any reply.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I guess your theme really got to me.’
And she hangs up.
Is she right? Is such sharing selfish?
The song comes to an end and I wonder what my last one will be tonight.
11
STELLA
WITH TOM
Tom kissed my thigh; he squeezed its dimpled flesh between his thumb and forefinger and bit me; I parted my legs so he would see how aroused I already was. He gasped, pushed his tongue up inside me, as though to compensate for the risk I had just taken. I shivered. He stayed there, fat and warm, and his fingers sought the rest of me. The top button of his jeans was undone.
I waited to see what would happen.
The salty taste rose in my throat again, mixed with vodka.
Tom said it would only take twenty minutes.
He had done his research – working in a hospital helped – and suggested that injecting me with insulin was too risky. So we decided to go for the more traditional approach: he ordered some GHB online. It had arrived two days before, in discreet white packaging, with refund guaranteed if not satisfied. We had both smiled and said for a hundred pounds there
had better be some decent satisfaction. The clear liquid was 99.9% pure and ‘perfect for insomniacs’.
I hadn’t wanted to think about that 0.01%.
I’d just now swigged two capfuls, followed by vodka. Tom said I shouldn’t take any more until we saw what happened. I might just feel sleepy, dizzy, confused. It was apparently very easy to overdose.
It was ten days since Victoria Valbon had been killed. I was about to play dead, and my boyfriend was going to record it all. Harland Grey said in the book I was now almost halfway through that his compulsion to film everything was because he wanted to capture the truth. I wondered what Tom was going to capture?
My breath began to slow. I felt calm. Sensual. Nice. I smiled at Tom. His edges were smudged. I was glad I had agreed to this game. Any fear I had melted as the drug began to work.
‘Tell me why you really want to do this?’ I asked, my words slightly slurred. This fall into a soft and sensual place made other questions whirl around my mouth, tease my tongue. I held them in place. ‘What made you … want it…’
A moan escaped from between his lips, like the tiniest piece of evidence that proves guilt. He undid the rest of his jeans’ buttons and I saw how much he wanted this.
‘It means you’ll be … fully and totally mine.’
‘I already am,’ I whispered.
‘You know, when the muscles relax fully,’ he said, ‘they clench more tightly if they’re stimulated.’ His smile was blurred. ‘That’s gonna feel good. People think that taking someone by force is sexy, but I’m not interested in that. I’d never hurt you. Just give yourself completely to me…’ He closed his eyes briefly, lost for words it seemed.
My eyes felt heavy too. I fought to keep them open.
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’m going to love you while you’re dead.’
‘Playing dead,’ I reminded him, the words thick and clumsy.
‘Of course.’
‘I love you too,’ I said. ‘And I want you … to … do … this…’
I could barely concentrate. My fingertips tingled. I felt like the bed was trying to swallow me. Time slowed. I wanted Tom desperately. All questions died. He watched. Kiss me, I tried to say, but couldn’t move. Lines from the Harland Grey book came to me. If we do not record it, he said, does it even happen? If something isn’t captured on film, we might say it did not exist. That we do not exist.
I existed.
Then I didn’t.
What led me to absolute darkness?
Flashes of light did. Tingling as though my body was lit by sparklers. Tom asking how I felt. My tummy twitching in a strange dance.
How do you feel?
Were they Tom’s words? Yes.
Stella, you will not escape from the truth in this oblivion.
Tom again? I wasn’t sure.
Stella, you can’t ignore me forever.
Less light then. More dark.
How do you feel?
Yes, that was Tom asking.
And then finally, Tom reaching into his back pocket, taking out his phone, and starting to film.
And then I knew absolutely nothing.
*
We watched it afterwards, on our blood-red sofa. Together, smoking, breath slow again. It had taken me five hours to wake up fully, and a good few coffees to chase away the grogginess. I waited excitedly for the high I’d experienced after almost drowning when I was seven. For the panic I’d felt after sinking to the bottom of a river and being swallowed by the black; for the exhilaration of seeing the light again when I resurfaced.
Tom’s camera footage was high definition. My memory wasn’t. I had no recollection of any of it. Tom hadn’t said anything afterwards, he’d just kissed me tenderly once I was my usual self again, and said he loved me. We leaned in to watch the footage unfold, Tom’s smile knowing, my heart tight with anticipation. My breath clouded the small screen; Tom had to wipe it away with his fist so we could watch.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I asked as it began.
‘Yes.’ The word was a groan.
‘Did I?’
‘Your muscles said you did,’ he smiled.
In our home movie I was unconscious, mouth slack, skin loose, all control abandoned to oblivion. The camera moved the length of the bed, up, down, up down, up down. Then a wobble, a flash of ceiling, as it was placed on the cabinet, where it viewed the room for a moment before being adjusted to show my body. Tom smiled into the camera and approached me, naked.
He asked the camera, ‘Are you ready?’
Then he paused. Did he wonder what to do, or consider that he should not do anything at all? He rolled me roughly over so my face was in the pillow. He turned my head so I wouldn’t suffocate, and then pushed himself inside me. His passion died fast; ten thrusts, some slaps, a moan. Curiosity remained though, and Tom flipped me back over and licked and kissed all my crevices and lines. He put his flaccid penis in my equally relaxed mouth, appearing to want to learn something rather than become aroused. He ran his hands over every part of me. Gently slapped my face. I didn’t flinch. Finally, he lifted the camera and moved it along the bed, up, down, up, down, up, down.
I saw parts of myself I never would have otherwise or would again.
The film finished.
Tom was breathing heavily. I was surprisingly numb. Maybe it was the after-effects of the drug. Or was it too disturbing to see myself pretend-dead? Still the high of escaping death after almost drowning didn’t come. I closed my eyes. Could recall my mum’s rough hands drying me while my heart pounded with the elation of being alive.
‘Let’s watch again,’ whispered Tom, gripping my thigh.
If we did would it thrill me this time?
‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘You watch again if you like,’ I said.
‘You okay?’ Tom’s face creased with concern. ‘Are you sorry we did it?’
‘No.’ I wasn’t. ‘I think I just still have that bloody drug going through me.’
Though I’d been keen to surrender completely to Tom, I now hated the lack of control I’d had over my own body. Must it feel that way to be killed? Would Victoria Valbon have felt that way? ‘If we watch tomorrow, I might feel different. We have it forever.’
He touched my cheek. ‘Forever.’
I made Tom some toast, spreading extra jam on it to replace the sugars that our exertions must have burned. I put the chopping board a fisted hand’s distance from the edge of the worktop; our eternal compromise. On the sagging sofa, he ate noisily; I watched quietly from the door.
‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ he said when he saw me. ‘But I can’t lie: it was a thrill to take a risk like that.’
I nodded, joined him on the sofa. ‘I could have ended up like Rebecca March.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman Harland Grey killed in his last film. Everyone thought she’d gone missing – that she’d done her scene and then simply disappeared. But he’d buried her in cement under his film studio. He said he’d caught life on camera and he wanted to capture death too.’
‘God, that’s not what I wanted.’ Tom kissed me tenderly. ‘I can’t deny that, once you were unconscious, I was overcome with desire.’ He paused. ‘Then I kept thinking about Duchess.’
‘Duchess?’
‘My cat.’
‘What happened to her?’ I asked.
Tom wiped his mouth, streaking burgundy jam across his cheek. I licked my sleeve and wiped it off; he pushed me away.
‘We got her from a neighbour when she was days old,’ he said. ‘My dad called her Duchess. The first thing she did when I went to pick her up was scratch me. Six-year-olds don’t realise that animals are driven by instinct. I tried again – the same. My father told me I was a wuss for crying. The next day, when my mother had gone to work and my father was at the pub, I put Duchess in a bag. She scratched and kicked but I wore my father’s gardening gloves. And then I put her at the bottom of our bin. When my father came home, stinking of ale
, he started looking for Duchess. I didn’t say anything. I just watched the bin men driving away. I felt awful. I never told him where she’d gone. I was so sorry for what I’d done, but what good was there telling anyone?’
If we do something but we’re sorry, can we be forgiven? My mother wanted my forgiveness. She never asked for it in words, but I could feel in every look and movement that she needed it desperately.
‘Did you ever get another cat?’ I asked.
Tom’s eyes were teary. My heart melted. I held him.
‘You were just a kid,’ I said.
‘We don’t have to play dead again if you don’t want.’ He was serious, kind, holding my gaze. ‘It’s enough for me that you trusted me like that. There’s no one like you, Stella. I don’t think any other woman would have done such a thing with me.’ He paused. ‘How do you feel now?’
I felt like I did at WLCR; I needed to look forward not back – to the next song, the next beat.
But I didn’t answer – instead I slipped into Tom’s lap and permitted him to bury his face in my neck, like he might have done in Duchess’s had she been less catty. I thought of my own childhood memory. Of almost drowning. Of rescuing myself. The thought of another woman loving Tom had me fighting again to climb a slimy riverbank with a mouthful of putrid water, and not giving in and sinking to the bottom.
That night, when he was asleep, I watched Tom. Now he was oblivious. Did I prefer it that way? No. I wanted us both to be absolutely present. Perhaps that was why I couldn’t help feeling disappointed at the lack of thrill I’d felt after our game. At the start – as I fell into unconsciousness – I had been so excited. Now, I couldn’t sleep. Now, I wanted to cry.
12
STELLA
NOW
My scattering of stars bring me no calm now that Stephen Sainty is wandering around the studio, criticising and interfering. I can’t wait to leave, and it makes me sad because I wanted to make this a special show. Chloe’s call has put a dampener on things. Keep it to yourself, she said of secrets.
