The Vanity Game Read online

  "Well she's about 5'7", thin, long blonde hair, pretty. I'll show you a picture if you like – or you could always Google her."

  This last bit comes out more sarcastically than I mean it to.

  "A photo would be useful," Thin Face replies, coldly.

  I go upstairs to look for a picture. It's a relief to get out of the room. I grab the one of the two of us that's still lying face down on the bedside table.

  The two pigs study it closely and I wonder what they must think of it. An exclusive picture of the soccer star and his glamorous girlfriend. No doubt it'll be plastered all over the papers tomorrow. They ask a few more routine questions about her movements and people she was close to then they get up to go.

  "We usually give it twenty-four hours, so if she's not turned up by about five we'll start looking," the Rookie says as he replaces his hat, the only thing he's said to me the whole time they've been here.

  "And of course, if you hear from her, let us know straight away."

  I nod vigorously, trying to work out whether they really believe she's missing or not, but it's impossible to tell – the slight smirk on his face could mean he thinks I'm a liar or a tosser or it could just be he's so in awe of me. Perhaps the Rookie is a Lover.

  I see them out and lean back against the closed door as they drive away. There is no way back now.

  EIGHT

  I spend the rest of the day sitting in front of the TV watching Sky News. Serge left shortly after the police, leaving me alone in the empty house. Within about half an hour of him going I've totally freaked myself out, listening for random noises that might suggest some kind of spiritual presence, convincing myself she is still here, or has come back, a crazy ghost looking for payback. And not to mention waiting for that knock on the fucking door: the Old Bill coming to arrest me because the body has washed up somewhere. I'm too scared to leave the house though, because despite the paranoia trips, it feels like the safest place to be. So I sit here, petrified to fuck and shaking, watching the TV with the sound turned up high, my eyes glued to the breaking news ticker. 'Earthquake in South Asia kills hundreds' …I follow the death count as it rises through the afternoon, and get bored watching footage of rescue workers in hard hats standing on piles of rubble. More troops killed in the war, a teenager stabbed in London during an argument over a packet of crisps, stuff about the economy that I don't understand. Adverts for cancer insurance. Then at quarter past three:

  'Breaking news: girlfriend of soccer ace reported missing'

  Oh crap. Here we fucking go.

  The bedside table picture fills the screen. I jerk forward, feel my heart thudding in my throat, and squeeze the cushion I'm holding.

  "Sky News exclusive: Football star Beaumont Alexander has reported his girlfriend Krystal McQueen missing.

  "It's believed that Krystal left the Essex mansion the couple share yesterday afternoon and has not been seen or heard from since."

  Then there's footage of the two of us smiling, turning to the cameras on the red carpet at an awards ceremony or film première that I can't remember. I'm in a suit, looks like Versace. She's in a glittery white dress, split to the hip. Then a clip from the video for her song 'Sweet Fantasy' where she's writhing around in foam, the complete Fantasy Fuck. I see her eyes, when she knew she was dying. 'You fucker', the voice from the watery grave.

  "The star was recently in rehab for a long-term cocaine problem and police are trying to determine her state of mind when she disappeared. Beaumont Alexander is said to be very worried about his girlfriend. The couple have become style icons and are followed everywhere they go by the paparazzi. But in a recent interview Krystal said she hated the media attention."

  Now a Peek! splash fills the screen – it's an interview we gave when we moved into the house, 'Beaumont and Krystal's Love Palace.'

  "We'll keep you updated when we hear more on this story."

  Then they cut to the adverts. I make it to the toilet in time to spit out the thin bile I've retched up. Then I collapse, exhausted, against the side of the bathtub. This is really happening, I'm stuck in this terrible film.

  I feel my mobile vibrating against my thigh in the pocket of my jeans. It's Serge.

  "Bleeding hell, Beaumont." He sounds out of breath, panicky.

  "I've had about fifty calls from journos already – I assume you've seen Sky have got hold of it?"

  "Yeah," I reply weakly.

  He asks if I've heard from the Old Bill again, says I probably will soon. We have to act fast and do something with the Land Rover, he says. The fucking Land Rover, I'd completely forgotten about that. He tells me to go out, go and visit a friend for moral support. While I'm away he'll arrange for someone to come round and break into the garage to take the car. Simple as that.

  "Jesus Christ, let's just hope they ain't tapping the phones yet," he says before hanging up.

  Simple as that, can it really be? Can I really get away with it that easily? And as for calling a friend…I stare blankly at my mobile and wonder who I could possibly call. I run through all the people I know and realise I don't consider any of them good enough friends at this point in time. Jon, Mattaus, how many times have I spoken to either recently when we've been completely sober? Danny, my best mate from the YTS scheme, we've not spoken now for how long? Must be getting on a year, or more. I think of the two of us larking around in the dressing room when we were cleaning the boots of the senior players and I have to swallow back the lump in my throat.

  I scroll down through the names in my phone book hoping to find the name of that great, reliable mate that has somehow slipped my mind, but I get to the entry entitled 'Mum', hover my finger over the call button and then press it.

  She still lives in the two bed-roomed house in Wembley where she brought me up, single-handedly and wrapped in cotton wool. My therapist has told me it's a classic case of what he calls 'permanent adoration syndrome' – because Sheila Alexander had bestowed so much love and attention on her son he had normalised it and expected it, craved it, off everyone else.

  Since my rise to stardom our relationship has become tense. Mum refuses to move out of the poky terraced house and, though I hate to admit it, I'm embarrassed to visit. I hate parking my beautiful cars on the street outside where the fucking kids, the little shits, will slash the tyres or break the windows just for the hell of it unless I take a minder with me, and I'm embarrassed by the chintzy sofas and net curtains that haven't changed since the mid-nineties. As for Ma, she don't approve of my lifestyle, and wonders why I can't settle down with a 'nice girl' rather than dating that 'tart' as she refers to Krystal. God knows what she'll say about this mess. But she's the only person I can call and, I've got to say, it's strange and surprisingly comforting to hear her voice.

  "Hello darling." She sounds delighted. It's rare for me to call and her unfailing love for her selfish, neglectful millionaire son makes me feel bad.

  "Mum, can I come round? Krystal's gone missing."

  "What? Krystal's gone missing?" She's got this annoying habit of repeating everything I say.

  "Yeah, she never came home last night, the police are looking for her, it's on Sky."

  Jesus, I hate lying to her – a murderer lying to his own mother, but what can I do?

  "On Sky? Oh my days, Beaumont! Well what did I say—"

  "Mum I ain't got time to talk now; I'll be over as soon as I can."

  I pull together an overnight bag then head to the garage. The black Land Rover is sitting there, taunting me, telling me it knows my secrets. I'm glad it won't be here when I get back. Anyway, fuck that, I need to concentrate on the now. What car to take to Mum's? I decide on the pimped up Brabus Merc. At least it looks like it might be owned by one of the drug dealers who sometimes come back to the estate to proudly show off their not-so-well-earned bling. I ain't driven it for months and lying on the passenger seat inside is a pale blue cashmere scarf. I pick it up, hold it to my nose, and inhale the aroma of Chanel No.5. She wore it be
cause Marilyn Monroe did. It must have been here since last winter. I feel nothing though, no guilt, no sadness. I just sit back in the seat and close my eyes. I'm totally knackered, it's like a massive come-down – that feeling of being all used up inside, so hungry you feel sick and so tired you feel too wired to sleep. The thought of driving all the way over to Wembley seems like the longest journey of my life, but now all I want is to be back in that small bedroom, where the posters of Barnsy and Glen Hoddle still hang on the walls, more than anywhere in the world. It's a homesickness I've not felt since…when? My first trip abroad, the England under-sixteens away game with France.

  There are cameras outside when I drive through the high, electronic gates. I stare straight ahead as they press themselves against the windows of the car, and I block out the things they're shouting by turning the music, some old school R Kelly, right up. Camera flashes surround me. Only about six of the fuckers, a small pack, panting and growling, but it's enough. As I look back through the mirror I can see a couple of them running to their motorcycles which are parked – illegally – on the grass verges. At least if they follow me they'll be out of the way when Serge comes for the Land Rover.

  It takes me, and the chasing paps, two and a half hours to reach Mum's house. During the journey I ignore my phone ringing time and time again and when I pull up outside the house I've got voicemails from Michael, which I delete as soon as I realise it's him, and the Old Bill. They want to talk to me again, some guy called Dante. Well, it was like Serge said, they'd be in contact again. Maybe this is just routine, yeah, I tell myself, they don't make appointments to arrest people do they?

  It's dusky outside now, and a pap on a motorcycle almost collides with me as I climb out of the car. I wish the stupid fucker had crashed, but he manages to regain his balance and stop a few yards ahead of me. Mum's already waiting at the door, looking worried. She hugs me; her body feels smaller than I remember it.

  "I've been watching the news all afternoon since you rung, darling. What's going on?"

  "I don't know," I tell her, "I've got to ring the police back, look let's just get inside."

  As she closes the door behind me the smells of my childhood reach out to me: oven chips, Ambipure air freshener, nicotine, and I want to close the door behind me and never, ever leave again.

  NINE

  'Krystal's shock breakdown'

  'Krystal goes missing'

  'Coke-addict footballer's fiancée missing'

  'Where's K-Mac!?'

  It's all over the papers this morning.

  Last night I had fish fingers, oven chips and frozen peas for tea, washed down with orange squash. I lied to my own ma in front of EastEnders with the sound down as the paparazzi loitered outside, pissing off the neighbours. I told her more or less what I'd said to the police, adding to it here and there with my own pretend theories about why she'd gone and where she might be. I also called the Old Bill back and arranged to meet this Dante geezer at the house this afternoon. He insisted that the meeting take place at the house. Is he suspicious? Or does he just want a butchers at the legendary Love Palace in all its glory?

  And last night I remembered I'd brought a few Valium tablets with me so I took two as I lay in my boyhood bedroom, feeling like a giant in the tiny single bed, trying to remember things that seemed so far away until the drugs kicked in.

  This morning I wake from a blank sleep, still fuzzy, confused about where I am until I see Barnsy's face grinning down at me and it all comes back. I lie there for a while wrapped in my duvet. I feel safe, warm. I think about taking the rest of the Valium tablets, just to keep that safe, warm feeling forever, but then I couldn't do that to my Ma so I drag myself out of bed and head downstairs.

  Mum is smoking a fag over the morning's papers with all their fantastic headlines. The fuzziness from the Valium has left me too numb to feel any shock, even at the one referring to Krystal as a coke addict. She'd have hated that. Mum is worried, fretting over whatever The Mirror is saying, and seeing her like this makes me feel pretty shit about lying to her. She's the only person in the whole fucking universe who trusts me and will defend me to the end, no lie.

  I stare at the headlines and the front pages of the papers as I eat my cornflakes and then toast, re-reading the headlines over and over again and the first few lines of text. I can't bring myself to 'turn to pages 4 and 5 for the full story' in any of them. People all over the country must be doing that though. Gorging themselves on the scandal, talking it over with their families as they rush through their morning routines, then heading to their boring little office jobs and discussing it with the person on the next desk. I wonder if any of those losers have guessed what's really happened.

  "The Mirror says there's been a sighting of her in Hastings," Mum offers. I smile and tell her I can't imagine Krystal in Hastings. She just frowns at me.

  I'm meeting this Dante guy back at the house at half two. Serge says it'll be okay to go back then. I guess this means the Land Rover will have gone, but neither of us mentions it by name as we're too paranoid now about the phones being tapped. There's fuck all to do after breakfast so I go to the window and peer though the net curtain. I see a few paps standing around at the end of the drive. A couple are smoking and they look like they're making idle small talk with each other, with their cameras with over-sized lenses hanging round their necks. Bastards.

  The Merc is a few feet away from them. I don't like that. I wonder if they've looked inside and seen Krystal's scarf on the passenger seat, perhaps noted the half-eaten packet of Polo mints…

  Suddenly one of them yells something and points towards the window. Like hyenas raising their noses to the scent, they all grab their cameras at once. I let the net curtain drop and lean away from the window before the first flash.

  "I don't know what they want anyway, hassling you at a time like this," Mum says, entering the room to find me pressed against the wall, her hunted son.

  The rest of the morning drags. I can feel my skin tightening and drying out from the central heating, which Mum has on even though it's technically summer. I curse myself for not bringing my moisturiser with me and I'm almost reduced to using Mum's cheap Nivea stuff, but I'm too worried it'll bring me out in zits. Then I start to feel well bloated from all the carbs I've eaten since last night and pass some of the time doing sit-ups and press-ups in my room. All the time I'm thinking about this Dante guy and what he might want. I summon Serge's voice in my head: it's just routine, just routine.

  When it's time to head back to the house for the showdown I hug Mum goodbye and tell her I'll see her soon, though truth be told I don't know when that'll be. I take another look out of the window to see the pap crowd has got bigger. There must be about fifteen or so of the fuckers now, like vultures collecting and waiting. It's as though they can sense me because I swear the flashes start going off before I've even fully opened the door. I want to get to the car quickly but they form a wall in front of me, moving together as one, the snip-snap of the cameras going off all around me. I got to admit it freaks me out a bit, being this close to them with no security. I want to lash out at them and tell them to fuck off to hell but I keep my eyes turned down to the pavement and try to push through them. I don't want to look at the cameras and give anything away.

  "Beaumont, mate, over here," they cackle.

  "Where do you reckon she is?"

  "Was she back on the drugs?"

  They're pressing against me, actually touching me, but I manage to climb into the car and slam the door. I have to sit there for a second, breathing slowly, but they still carry on, banging on the windows. I rev the engine loudly and they scatter like pigeons and I can drive off.

  They don't follow me as I make my way through the housing estate back towards the ring road. This is a bad sign. They're obviously staff hacks or team paps, not the freelance loners you usually get who hang round exclusive nightclubs till closing time to get a few shots up the girls' skirts. Likely they'll be on their mobile
s now, sending messages back to the chief pigeon or whoever is in control. Maybe they've just put tracking devices under my car and know where I'm going anyway. Crap, I can't let myself start thinking shit like that.

  As I'm nearing the gate to my house I can see them crowded on the road, waiting for me. Not a pretty sight. There's even a huge news van with a whopping great big satellite dish on the top and what looks like Japanese writing in the side. I want to accelerate and run the bastards all down, hear the camera lenses crush under the Merc's tyres, but I don't have the guts to do that so I slow down as I try to pass them. No option really as they're blocking half the road. Needless to say this gives them a chance to swarm round the car, whooping and shouting. I wish Serge was here now, calling them all 'fucking cunts', telling me how they're all sex-starved alcoholics. I wonder what they'll do when this DI Dante fucker arrives and, as my stomach flips at the thought, I wonder again: what the hell does the guy want?

  The house is so silent, it makes the air feel heavy, and this makes me feel more nervous. I can feel her everywhere. I keep expecting her to appear in a doorway or call me from a far-off room, like I've forgot for a second she's dead, and then I remember – I killed her, and I see the blood, see her eyes. I walk through the hall and come to the glass wall beyond which the water of the swimming pool glistens under the low lighting. I watch the water for a while. It's hypnotic the way the gentle waves roll up and down the length of it, and then fuck me, I swear I see a body, floating face down, just for a second, close my eyes, open them again, and it's gone. Totally spooks me out, and I run through the house until I'm stood in the lounge under the skylight, panting, sunlight bearing down on me, burning away those horrible vibes. Jesus, I must be going fucking crazy, but I swear there was something in the pool. I wish so badly there was someone else here, anyone, and when the gate chimes go I'm kind of relieved, thinking maybe it's Serge, but then I remember, no, it's the fucking Bill, the detective.