Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  ‘What did you hear?’

  He pauses. The song does too. We both look towards the speaker. It starts up again.

  ‘Well?’ I prompt him.

  ‘I heard enough. Bits. Words. I heard her yelling, my baby.’

  My baby.

  How long would a baby live once its pregnant mother had died? A minute? Three? Five? I feel sick again. The studio swims before my eyes. I have to fall into the chair I thought I’d never again sit in.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks me, moving closer.

  ‘What do you think?’ I snap.

  There is nothing left inside me to throw up. My father’s name brought it all out earlier. Am I destined, as the daughter of a killer, to be surrounded by darkness? Does it seek me out? Or am I the one who goes looking?

  ‘How soon did you know it was Victoria Valbon?’ I ask him when the nausea passes.

  ‘As soon as everyone else did. I heard on the news. The next day they said a girl had been found in the alley, and I felt as sick as a pig. Rang in sick at work. Just couldn’t face it.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t step in to help, since you were there?’

  He ignores the question.

  ‘Are you going to the police with all this info now?’ I try.

  ‘Yes,’ he says gently.

  He’s only a few feet from me. He leans against the desk like Stephen Sainty has so many times in the past, critiquing my show.

  ‘They’re not going to be happy that you waited so long, are they? I think it’s classed as hindering an investigation. Why the hell did you wait?’

  ‘I wanted to come to you first with it.’ His eyes penetrate mine.

  ‘You mean first you wanted to play with me,’ I say. ‘Ring up and tease me with about what you think you know. Play a game and string it out and then finally come here with your crappy pictures!’

  He edges a little closer along the desk. ‘But we both know, don’t we?’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Stella, I know.’

  The Man Who Knows, I think.

  ‘What do you know? Really? You did not bear witness as you called it earlier. You were hidden behind a bush. You heard tiny bits of an argument.’

  ‘You’re still going to play a game?’

  ‘You started it!’ I cry.

  ‘Even with the pictures,’ he says.

  ‘They don’t show shit.’ I throw them on the desk.

  ‘They could.’ He gathers them up.

  ‘A man behind a fucking bush saw nothing!’

  ‘I hung around for a while after,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t dare move from my hiding place. I was pretty shaken up. And then … eventually … I saw…’

  He looks at me.

  ‘I saw you.’

  35

  ELIZABETH

  THEN

  When I set off for Vicky’s house that night, I wasn’t sure what it would achieve. Whether I could stop her from seeing Tom. I only knew that I had to do something.

  What if Stella ever found out I’d known Vicky was on her way to destroy her world, but I’d just done nothing? I’d be letting her down all over again. This time I was going be a good mother. The kind of mother who puts her child first and moves mountains to keep her happy.

  I walked there. I needed time to think. It was a mild night for mid-September and I began to wish I’d not worn my heavy coat. As sweat trickled down my back, I was tempted to take it off and carry it, but it would have been cumbersome. Stella had told me about an app that lets you listen to the radio wherever you are, so I’d put one on my phone. I listened to WLCR radio as I walked. Sang along to the songs I knew. Later, if I was still out, I would be able to hear Stella’s show.

  I wasn’t often out in the evening. I’d still not made many friends since coming back to the area. I always had plenty when I lived here years before with Stella. In some ways Vicky was the only one I’d made since I’d returned.

  A sudden sadness made me briefly stand still in the street. Why did the father of her baby have to be Stella’s Tom? Of all the men it could be, why him? I couldn’t help but compare the twist of fate to the moment I met Harland. I’d been in the right place at the right time, and so had he. Now it felt to me as if Vicky and Tom had somehow been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He belonged with Stella. That was his right place.

  I started walking again, full of determination.

  It was a good two miles to Vicky’s home, but I’d allowed plenty of time, and the music in my ears kept me company. She had said earlier, in the café, that she was going to sneak out while her family were watching the soaps, which I guessed meant at around seven o’clock. I didn’t want to take any chances, so I’d set off at five-thirty. As I walked, I tried to plan. To think of what I might say.

  What the heck could I say that would actually stop her wanting Tom? What if I made something up? Something impossible to dismiss? What would have stopped me wanting Harland?

  It was better I didn’t answer that.

  But, yes, that could be it. Make something up. What could I have read? Been told? Something terrible about Tom? That he’d been involved in some unsavoury activity? Something criminal? A little voice reminded me that even murder hadn’t changed my feelings for Harland, but Vicky wasn’t me.

  Then I realised that she would check it out, look online and see nothing, and I’d be proved a liar.

  Should I admit that Tom’s current girlfriend Stella was my own daughter? Could I appeal to Vicky’s sensitive side? She was a sweet girl who told me she cried at NSPCC adverts and romantic films. I could use that against her. I’d been worried all this time that if I revealed that her Tom was my daughter’s Tom, too, Vicky would think my efforts to stop her getting him back were selfish. But, hell, I could admit that yes, I was being selfish. I was behaving how a mother should. And I could say that, if she had any sort of heart, she would respect that and stay well away from Tom. From my Stella.

  And if she didn’t…

  If she didn’t, what?

  What could I do?

  By the time I reached Vicky’s house, I still wasn’t sure what I was going to say to her. I sat on the wall at the end of the street, knowing I’d be out of sight, but that she couldn’t go anywhere without passing me. Now that I wasn’t moving, I shivered, and was glad of my big coat. I took my headphones out, afraid I’d miss the sound of Vicky’s footsteps. Even though she’d become bigger, she always wore heels. She often said that she refused to give them up just because she was pregnant, though she went for a lower one now.

  As it approached seven o’clock, and the sun was going down fast, I decided I would detain Vicky by getting upset about something. I was sure I could summon tears and pretend to sob over some family drama. Say she was the only one I could talk to. Then I’d suggest we go for a drink and a chat. And then I’d think on my feet.

  I had to have faith that something would come to me.

  I’d always found a way to do what I wanted in the past. And the thing that I wanted now fired me more because there was goodness in it. It wasn’t purely selfish. I was doing it for my daughter.

  And when she found out I had, she would love me again.

  36

  STELLA

  NOW

  The Man Who Knows edges closer.

  ‘I saw you,’ he repeats.

  I hold his gaze but don’t say a word.

  ‘At first, I didn’t know it was you,’ he says. ‘You walked under a lamp as you crossed over the road. You turned for a second and I saw your face. That was the first time in the flesh. You were just like your picture on the WLCR website.’ He pauses. ‘Glorious,’ he whispers. ‘I wanted to get a picture of you then, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were distraught. Your eyes were wild. I wasn’t sure if it was with fear … or with adrenaline … or with anger.’

  He is inches away from me. I can smell him. Like me, he doesn’t appear to use any sort of cologne. He smells clean. Of fresh clothes
and soap. His odour is not what I expect, just as his appearance was a surprise having only heard his voice.

  He saw me.

  He smells sweet and he says he saw me.

  ‘I saw you leaving that alley,’ he finishes.

  ‘That’s all you saw?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’ he asks.

  ‘You didn’t see the actual murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just me leaving.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you saw nothing.’

  ‘What did you … do?’ he asks me.

  ‘I thought you were the man with the answers, not the questions.’

  ‘If I went to the police with all this info, it would help them. I don’t care what you say, those pictures could be enhanced and expose the killer.’ The Man Who Said That He Knew looks me in the eye. ‘You and I know that the person who did it should go to prison.’

  ‘Do we?’ I whisper.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ He looks nervous.

  ‘I don’t quite know.’ I stand up. He does too, moving away from me again, wary now. ‘I never do what people expect from me, and tonight is no different. I think you should go now. We’re done here.’

  ‘I won’t see you again, will I?’ He sounds sad. ‘You’re leaving the radio tonight.’

  ‘I hope the photographs bring you some recognition,’ I say.

  I mean it. He’s just a harmless young man with a camera. He captured a moment in time that is a mystery to the world right now. His other pictures – the planned ones he takes at night – might be really good. This could help him make it into a career if he wants that.

  I head into the foyer, and he follows me.

  ‘You’re the one who knows everything,’ he says. ‘What on earth happened that night in that alley? Why won’t you talk to me? Tell me. You have the story and I have the pictures. Together we’d be a sensation.’

  I shake my head. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Miles,’ he says, even though I haven’t asked.

  I open the door. ‘Goodnight, Miles.’

  He steps into the night. The world is dead quiet. No traffic beyond the trees. No clubbers rolling home. Halfway down the path, Miles turns and raises his camera. I could argue. I could shut the door on him. But I let him fiddle with his focus. I let him take a photo of me. The flash blinds me. I wonder what my face says to him. I wonder if I am blurred. If it tells the truth.

  If I am glorious.

  ‘Photograph vérité,’ I call to him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You must have heard of cinéma vérité?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Look it up,’ I say. ‘And Miles…’

  ‘Yes?’ He looks hopeful.

  ‘Keep the radio on, won’t you?’

  ‘Why?’

  I’m not even sure why, I only know that, just as I asked my mum to stay tuned all night, I feel compelled to tell him too.

  ‘Just keep it on,’ I say, and close the door.

  When I turn, I see Victoria Valbon again.

  No.

  Not Victoria, says the voice in my head. Remember, she liked to be called Vicky.

  She stands by the door to the studio, her bloodied baby in her arms, as though she isn’t going to let me pass. As though I’ll have to give a password – like we’re kids, and she’s playing a game of blocking a doorway. That eternally golden hair flies away from her head. The blood at her throat is now sticky and congealed. She is drying out. She has not just been killed. She has had time to think. To get angry. She is here for me.

  I close my eyes.

  I whisper again, No, no, no, my mind is playing tricks on me.

  When I open them, she has gone.

  She knows, I think. She knows.

  I have the password that she wants.

  Because I know too.

  And it knocks me out.

  37

  STELLA

  NOW

  I open my eyes. Bright lights above. Is it the star stopper to my beloved perfume? Can it be? I smile and reach for it. No, the lights are too harsh; too painful. Music washes over me. A discordant piano tinkles and soft lyrics rise and fall. Someone, somewhere, whispers my name. Stella, wake up, wake up. The voice is familiar; the one I’ve been hearing for weeks. But it’s clearer now. Nearer.

  Am I dreaming?

  No. I realise I’m very awake and on the floor in the radio foyer. How the hell did I get down here? And how long have I been here? Did I pass out?

  Another song filters through from the studio – a soaring ballad now – and then Gilly Morgan’s deep voice follows. Was it hers I heard earlier? No, her prerecorded show is in full swing, so she could not have called to me. The clock says 3:55am. How long since The Man Who Knows left? I sit up with great difficulty. My stomach hurts. My head hurts. My heart hurts. I must have passed out. Never in my life have I fainted before.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Stella, you know what it is; it’s what you’re carrying around with you. It’s so heavy, and it’s been weeks now.

  Who the hell said that? Who’s here with me? Did they break in while I was unconscious? The main door is shut, though. I strain to look up the stairs and then into the studio. I open my mouth to shout, ‘Who’s there?’ but I know instantly that it’s pointless.

  Stella, if you just told someone.

  The words come from everywhere – from around me, above me, inside me.

  Stella, it’s too much for anyone to keep inside.

  Stop, I think. Stop, I don’t want to hear it.

  Stella, tell them.

  Then I realise I know the voice. I heard it once before. It was sweet, lyrical, desperate. Now it’s sweet, lyrical, encouraging. It’s Victoria Valbon. No, Vicky, remember. My mum said she liked to be called Vicky. But she can’t be here. She’s gone. I know she’s gone.

  I must be losing my mind.

  I get to my feet and stagger into the studio, tempted to close and lock the door after me. But how can I keep out what is already inside? I go to my window. Stars, where are you? The sky is the black of eternity, and devoid of a single twinkle. I stare into the darkness, afraid that, if I turn around, she’ll be there – Vicky, bloody baby in her arms. I long to smash the window and feel the cold that used to freeze my feelings.

  I don’t want to know what I know.

  I don’t, I don’t.

  ‘You’re the one who knows everything,’ The Man Who Knows said earlier. Is that the definition of irony?

  I squeeze my head between my hands as though to push all of the infection out. I have been able to go about my daily life until now. I have functioned. I have woken each day for the last three weeks and vomited the buried infection into the toilet while letting the taps run. Then I have eaten breakfast with Tom. I have played dead with him. I have given him a cat, who ended up preferring me. I have fought with Tom despite his recent lack of response. I have loved him, hard. I have vomited the infection again before I climbed into bed at night.

  I don’t want to know what I know.

  I don’t want to have…

  But I am the daughter of a murderer. I am the daughter of a woman who left me at the first opportunity she had. I am the ward of a woman who kindly took me in. I am the lover of a man who fucked me while I was unconscious and was the fiancé of a murdered girl. I am all of these things, but I am me, too. I am honest, I am a fighter, and I am in control.

  Or am I?

  I come back to the desk and sit in the chair. My bag is where I left it. I open it and take out one of the pictures of Harland Grey. I look into his dark eyes as though what I should do will be written there. He is no role model, but he is my blood. He was all about bare reality. Absolute truth. Why smash a fake glass when you can smash a real one? Why pour on red paint when you can really bleed? If only the picture was clearer. If only I could see the colours in his irises; the sparks of li
fe. Snaps taken in those days were often blurred and out of focus. He is still as distant to me as he has always been. He might as well be a distant star in some far-away galaxy.

  I frown.

  What if the photographs The Man Who Knows has can be enhanced?

  Damn.

  What if he was right and there are techniques that can show who the killer is? What if the police put everything together using the images and what The Man Who Knows tells them? What if they already have tiny pieces of evidence that haven’t been mentioned in the media because, on their own, they don’t prove anything? What if these new photos and The Man Who Knows’ testimony is the key to solving the case? What if in a few days they call a press conference because of this new evidence? What if everyone finds out the truth?

  It will tear my life apart.

  I can’t let it happen.

  I must protect those I love from it.

  But what the hell can I do?

  I know I can’t leave the radio station yet. This is where I have learned who I am. I have things I want to say. Words that must come out of me. That have been simmering all evening. Now they hurt so much.

  Stella, say them. Say them.

  I don’t know if I can.

  I scroll through the Twitter feed for more secrets, for ones that might distract from mine, but all is quiet on our account. The same on Facebook. The world has finally gone to sleep. It’s just me. Me and what I know. Me and Victoria Valbon’s ghost.

  How long do I have until someone turns up here?

  Gilly Morgan’s show goes on until 5am. Then between five and six we always air a collection of the best bits of the day, something Maeve usually puts together during the Love Affair. I realise that I should have done that. Shit. Shit. Stephen Sainty will be doing the breakfast show at 6am, and he usually comes in an hour before to prep. I glance at the clock. Ten past four. Damn, Stephen will be here in just fifty minutes. I can’t have him here. I haven’t put any highlights together. And I’m not done. I want to…

  What do I want to do?