Gina and the band were no help. They couldn’t answer her questions. Whatever Dex had been worried about, he’d kept it to himself. He’d not confided in his friends or the woman he loved. That hurt the most. The silence. The lack of trust. The betrayal.
The police were reassuring, explaining that many men in Dex’s age group, with stressful busy lives, disappeared in this way. A great number of them were found, or returned of their own accord. They felt it was unlikely he’d committed suicide. Jay might have to prepare herself for months, if not years, of waiting, though.
Snide articles began to appear in the music press. One journalist suggested that as Dex had been so successful for so long, he was afraid his popularity was about to wane. Perhaps this disappearing act was a publicity stunt, engineered to regenerate interest in his work. Jay didn’t want to read the piece, and boiled with silent rage as she did so, but just couldn’t resist. It made her think about how time had hurried by. She and Dex had been together for seven years. Surely she should have known him better than she had? How could she have been so blind?
Jay was no longer just one of the beautiful people; now she was a tragedienne. Dex’s fans converged on the flat, some just watchful, others bearing gifts of condolence. Jay drew the curtains on them. Her grief and confusion were too intense and private to share. A girl in Birmingham killed herself and left a message telling the world that she had followed Dex into the next life. No you haven’t, Jay thought angrily. He’s not dead.
Still, she felt she’d never see him again. For whatever reason, he’d jettisoned his life, and it wasn’t his physical departure that hurt, but the fact she’d never known what had been going on in his mind. She’d been careless, overlooked a crack that had become a chasm. If she’d been more vigilant, he’d still be with her. It was her fault. She saw that in the eyes of female fans who haunted the steps outside. If they’d been his woman, they’d have protected him. Jay hadn’t. They had been jealous of her all along and now had an excuse to turn on her. She was a celebrity like him, made more famous by him; cold, calculating and greedy. Someone must be blamed for Dex’s disappearance. Jay became the scapegoat. Nobody would believe in her grief. The papers had made sure everyone knew she would not go on tour with him, and that she had refused to come when he needed her. Had Tony let that slip, or Dan, or Sammy or Martin? Perhaps even Gina, chatted up by journalists. Messages circulated on the Internet. Some implied wild conspiracies, even to suggest that Dex had been abducted by aliens. Others speculated as to whether Jay herself had engineered his disappearance. Perhaps she had murdered him for his money. It was ridiculous, Jay knew that, but every criticism, every insane idea, shocked and hurt her like a slap across the face. Had people no respect for her feelings? They didn’t know her. They couldn’t see into her mind, experience the physical pain of her grief.
‘You must ignore it,’ Gina said firmly. ‘It’s just the way things are. It’ll all blow over in a couple of weeks. People will find something else to focus on.’
The realisation hit Jay like a physical blow. Dex’s role in the music world had changed. He was no longer a creative immediate force. New stars would rise to take that place. Dex was destined to become a myth, like Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain. A rock casualty enshrined on the murky Olympus of shattered stars. When he was remembered, it would be as an obscene, sentimental travesty. She hated that. He was a man, her man, and he was lost. People were just too eager to make him a god. They didn’t want him to be found. The worst thing he could do now was saunter back into his life.
As one week rolled into the second, Jay became increasingly insular. She didn’t want to see any of her friends, or even speak to them. Acquaintances in similar jobs to her own, from whom she hadn’t heard for months, were suddenly interested in calling her, ostensibly to murmur their condolences. Jay saw through their thin words of sympathy. She tore the phone from the wall. She wouldn’t answer the door. Sakrilege had re-released Dex’s last single; it went straight to number one. Naturally. Jay couldn’t bear to go out of the flat. It seemed everywhere she looked there were posters of Dex’s face staring at her. It seemed like a mockery. So, she holed up like a wounded animal in shrouded daylight. She drank rum: white in the mornings, fiery spice in the amber afternoons, and dark, voodoo ichor through the long nights. She felt as if a thousand horses thundered through her head. She could almost see their flaming nostrils, their wild eyes, their foaming manes and tails. They carried her onward into a grey future that could not form properly, that would never become days and nights, seasons turning. She was immortal in the golden light of a perfect October. This moment would go on forever.
Chapter Two
Rhys Lorrance was the kind of man who wanted to be seen as a villain. He had a villain’s charm, and the savage generosity that threatened an equal measure of cruelty should anyone offend him. It was clear to astute people that this was an image Lorrance constantly updated and refined. Sometimes, they wondered whether behind it he was a scared and gentle man, fond of kittens.
Lorrance was managing director of Sakrilege, and therefore believed he owned Dex. His property had gone missing; quite an expensive piece of property that had been destined to attract more riches into the coffers of the king. So, in that gilded October, it was likely that Rhys Lorrance was not a greatly happy man. He could not use his frightening generosity to entice Dex back into the Sakrilege fold, because no-one knew where he was. Like Jay, Lorrance doubted Dex was dead. He knew Dex better than most, and despite what other people might think, did not see the potential for suicide in Dex’s emotional outbursts. Neither did he believe Dex could hide forever.
Ten days after Dex’s disappearance, Rhys Lorrance’s sleek limousine purred to a halt outside Sakrilege’s office in the West End of London. It was a beautiful morning, the air crisp and even here in the city smelling faintly of wood smoke, the essential perfume of autumn. Lorrance emerged from the back seat of the vehicle, smartly dressed in pale colours. He had the look of an American soap opera actor; his teeth looked very white against his tanned face, and his suavely greying hair was touched with gold. Somewhere in the countryside north of London, his trophy wife sat painting her nails and looking forward to the arrival of her aerobics instructor. Lorrance was not self-made, but his father had been; a man born as Ernest Smith, who had changed his name to match his fortune. Lorrance had inherited the country house from his father, and still had a mother somewhere, declining with frenzied eccentricity in a costly nursing home. He’d been a wild child of the Sixties and had built his kingdom from experience gained as a drug-embalmed guitarist with a psychedelic band called Velvet Gurus. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Lorrance had crawled from his youth with his life-force and most of his sanity intact. He found he’d learned more than he realised during those hazy, smoky years of minor stardom, and utilised this knowledge wisely. He had a nose for potential, and it was rare that any act rejected by Sakrilege went on to find fame elsewhere. In the mid-Eighties, Sakrilege had been gobbled up by the Charney empire, known as the Three Swords Group. As well as overseeing Sakrilege, Lorrance was also the prime mover behind The Eye, a Three Swords tabloid renowned for its excesses. He knew his overlord was pleased by his work. Lester Charney was a media mogul of mythic proportions. He owned most of the entertainment business in England, and continually added companies to his collection. If Lorrance thought he owned Dex, Lester Charney was in no doubt that he owned Lorrance.
Charney lived in the Caribbean now, but like a never-sleeping spider at the centre of its web, he always knew what went on in the farthest corners of his empire. Slight vibrations along the threads sent him information. Although a horde of faceless people ran Three Swords, Charney kept in touch with the higher echelons of his minions, and a few, such as Rhys Lorrance, he kept very close indeed. A thread had vibrated and informed Charney of Dex’s defection. A warning hiss had been directed at Lorrance. He now responded to its directive. Quickly.
It was Lorrance who’d plucked Dex
from the ranks of a struggling Northern indie band in the Eighties. But for this intervention, it was likely that, by now, Dex would still possess a surname and, if he was lucky, a mundane job, as well as a wife and children. He would be Christopher Banner, who lived on a council estate like his parents did, and drank in the pub his father had used, where on certain nights he would perhaps watch local bands strain through their repertoire, while he remembered the days when he’d been up there on the stage himself.
Lorrance knew that Dex owed him a lot, in every sense. He appreciated that the artistic type should be allowed their little displays and that the publicity this behaviour generated did nothing to harm sales. Quite the opposite. Dex was allowed to scarper every now and again - it made news - but he had no right to abscond indefinitely. Perhaps he’d let Dex get too close. Lorrance had been patient, but since the softly-spoken call from Charney’s personal office the previous evening, he was now annoyed and slightly unnerved. He had come to speak with his own minions about what could be salvaged from the situation.
Zeke Michaels was a senior executive of Sakrilege; an Igor to Lorrance’s Baron Frankenstein. Many thought him a brash Lorrance clone, unaware that when alone in Lorrance’s presence, Michaels became meek, almost submissive. While Lorrance gave orders, Michaels did the marketing equivalent of turning great wheels and pulling levers that instead of calling down lightning to resurrect the dead, pumped life into already burgeoning projects. Sakrilege was a very healthy creature indeed, but like the monster of Baron Frankenstein occasionally and inadvertently trampled weaker species beneath its feet.
Michaels couldn’t help feeling that Lorrance somehow blamed him for Dex’s disappearance. It was totally irrational. Most of the time Michaels dealt with Dex’s manager, Tony, so he’d done nothing himself to upset Lorrance’s fractious protégé.
His secretary announced the arrival of the great man, and Michaels composed himself behind his desk. All his tension was directed into a single finger of his left hand that drummed against the desk top. Lorrance didn’t come to Sakrilege very often, and Michaels’ regular visits to Lorrance’s country estate had ceased. This was because the parties had stopped, and Michaels knew in his heart that Dex was somehow connected with that.
Lorrance opened the door and sauntered in, saying ‘Hi! Zeke!’ as if in surprise.
Michaels’ face had set into an expression of weary disbelief and resignation. He shook his head ruefully. ‘All right, Rhys.’ He sighed to show how distressed he was about the Dex situation.
Lorrance sat down on a huge sofa beneath the window. Outside, tall grey buildings rose towards the pristine sky and a shaft of sunlight, fighting its way between them, fell into the room upon Rhys Lorrance’s head, augmenting his gilded appearance. ‘Any news about our runaway, then?’
It was a rhetorical question. News was far more likely to come to Lorrance before it reached Michaels. Michaels shook his head morosely. ‘No, nothing.’ He paused. ‘What do you make of all this?’
Lorrance raised an eloquent hand. ‘Well, it will of course have its advantages. A pity the album hasn’t yet been properly recorded, but I assume there will be tapes at Dex’s place.’
‘You talk as if you don’t expect him to come back.’
Lorrance shrugged. ‘It’s best to be prepared. Dex takes himself too seriously. There are millions of little Dexes out there in the world, waiting to be discovered. No-one is indispensable.’
Michaels felt better already. ‘True. We just go ahead with the album then, as planned?’
‘Yes. I propose we move very quickly to capitalise on the mood.’
Michaels frowned. ‘What if he isn’t dead?’
‘I’m assuming he isn’t.’
‘But..?’
‘But what?’
Michaels shrugged awkwardly. ‘Well, he could be seen as a bit of a loose cannon... Who knows what’s going through his head? He could... say things.’
‘He won’t.’
The words seemed like an iron screen. Michaels knew better than to pursue the topic. If Lorrance felt confident in Dex’s silence, then so must he. At that point, he wondered whether Lorrance knew more about Dex’s disappearance than it seemed. He was so calm about it. Perhaps this was some kind of marketing exercise, and at this very moment Dex was ensconced in a hotel somewhere, swilling expensive liquor at Lorrance’s expense. ‘I’ll call the Samuels woman, then.’
Lorrance nodded thoughtfully, his lower lip protruding. ‘Perhaps a visit would be more in order. Take her some flowers.’
‘Do you expect opposition?’
‘From her? No. But it would be as well to keep her sweet - given her vocation in life.’ He hesitated, then gestured sharply at Michaels with one hand. ‘None of us must panic, Zeke. We all know Dex had a problem with some of the things he’s done, but I really don’t think he’ll divulge anything. I had a word with him some months ago.’
Michaels nodded.
‘So keep your ears and eyes open. Let me know if any information comes to you.’
Again, Michaels nodded, although he didn’t really expect to find out anything, other than what might be printed in the music papers.
‘I want the tapes by tomorrow night.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
Later that day, Zeke Michaels drove round to Jay’s flat. A couple of photographers were still hanging around, as well as a coven of tear-streaked female fans. Michaels flashed his teeth for the cameras, nodded to the girls. It was doubtful they knew who he was, but the photographers were well aware. He showed them his best side and related that, no, he’d had no news about Dex. After ringing the door-bell for five minutes, he thought that Jay must be out, although one of the photographers was quick to assure him she hadn’t left the place for days. He banged on the door with his fist, still smiling, crying in the vicinity of the intercom, ‘Come on, Jay, it’s Zeke. Open up.
‘Women!’ he said to the photographers.
Presently, the locking mechanism clicked, and he was able to open the door and walk into the building. A couple of the photographers attempted to barge past him, but despite his sleek build, Michaels was not physically weak and managed to propel the interlopers back into the street, in much the same manner as dog-owners keep large, persistent pets out of the kitchen: a combination of leg manoeuvres and body twists.
Dex and Jay’s flat was on the ground floor. She was waiting for him in the doorway, looking horrible. Jay Samuels was far too intelligent for Michaels to like her. He distrusted writers anyway; they were like magpies, always on the lookout for things to steal from people’s lives. It gratified him to see her in such a state. What was she grieving; the loss of her man or the potential loss of her privileged lifestyle? He thrust the flowers at her. She stared at them, unblinking. ‘What do you want, Zeke?’
‘Hey, come on, let’s go in,’ he said soothingly. ‘It’s a bad time.’
Without responding, Jay went back into the flat, with Michaels following. He shut the door, dropping the rejected flowers onto a table. The place was a mess; newspapers everywhere and the stink of cigarette smoke and alcohol in an airless space. The curtains were drawn, but every electric light in the place was ablaze. Jay Samuels, in his opinion, seemed to have lost it - big-time. He wouldn’t have thought it of her. ‘I take it you haven’t heard from Dex?’ he said, clearing a space on one of the sofas and sitting down.
She stood before him belligerently, apparently wearing only a man’s shirt. It was probably Dex’s. The thought revolted him. She should be out there on the street with the weeping fans. ‘What do you want?’ she asked again.
Michaels shifted uneasily. ‘Jay, I won’t mess with you. As you know, Dex’s disappearance has caused us a bit of a problem. The album...’
‘Yeah,’ she interrupted dully. ‘His work-room’s through there. Do what you want, then leave.’
Her compliance surprised him. He’d expected her to be more protective of Dex’s work. ‘Well, thanks.’ Gingerly, he
rose from the sofa and eased past her. She continued to stare at the place where he’d been sitting. It was a relief to get away from her.
Dex’s room was in darkness, heavy fabric over the single window. It had a clean, masculine smell that hung like a ghost in the air. Michaels shivered involuntarily. He found the switch to a small lamp and then turned on the main computer. The light from the screen seemed acidic. Much of Dex’s work resided as files on the hard disk, although there were DAT tapes too. Michaels had never had access to Dex’s store of material before. He knew there would be a pile of songs the public had never heard, and that Sakrilege had never seen. He was almost salivating as he reverently began his explorations. His mouth soon dried. His eyes widened as he looked through the data. The files were still there - hundreds of them - but they were empty, or corrupted or full of incomprehensible gibberish. Dex, it seemed, had sabotaged his own work station.
Heart beating faster now, Michaels turned his attention to the tapes. Racks of them reared above his seat, all labelled and dated. Michaels’ attention flicked over the older tapes. He could see there were treasures there - songs he’d never heard of - but what he was looking for was the recent work. There were none, no tapes younger than ten months.
He emerged from Dex’s work-room, clutching all the tapes he’d salvaged, looking like a man who has just been told the secret of existence and it hasn’t been good news.
Jay was sprawled on the sofa now, the shirt up around her hips. Michaels barely registered the fact that she was at least wearing underwear, which at first he’d thought she wasn’t. There was a small, grim smile on her face. ‘Found what you were looking for, Zeke?’
He glared at her for a moment. Had she done something to the tapes and the computer? ‘What do you think?’
Thin Air Page 3
