The Vanity Game (11 page)

"I want justice for Krystal," Michael continues, "you never cared for her did you?"

"What?" is all I can think of to say. Fake outrage. The security guards have almost reached him now.

"She used to talk to me you know."

They're on him now, each taking an arm, pulling him away. He's trying to fight them off which just makes them grab hold of him harder. Then he seems to break free a bit, and lunges forward at me, his finger almost touching my chest.

"I loved her…you know, I loved her so much more than you," he shouts before seeming to give up, sink back into the arms of security and let them drag him away.

I'm frozen, numb, with embarrassment, hoping to God that all the fuckers that have just witnessed this brutal scene are too drunk or high to remember it tomorrow. Michael in love with her? So maybe she was fucking him after all. He 'loved her' though, how fucking clichéd, like hell, wasn't everyone in love with Krystal McQueen?

'Shamed: Beaumont branded murderer by agent'

'"I loved her" declares Krystal's agent'

'Krystal's lover slams 'murderer' Beaumont'

I could think up all the headlines for myself. I think I heard the click-click of a camera shutter going off during the scene with Michael. No doubt there'll be at least one grainy image, taken on a mobile, of Michael lunging towards me, held back by security.

Quotes from the party-goers, and of course, the source 'close' to me – 'Beaumont was obviously shaken by the attack. He's convinced Krystal is safe and well and will be found' or 'Beaumont hates Michael, it's obvious these two men were vying for Krystal's affections.' Rumours of a love triangle between Beaumont Alexander, Krystal and Michael. You can so see it, they're so predictable.

But I never see the morning papers, and that scene with Michael is old news by the time the first editions are rolling off the presses. I leave the club by the back entrance soon after it happens and walk, alone, into the chilly, wet London night to find the car I ordered. It's drizzling, I feel disorientated, dizzy, don't give a fuck who sees me. I'm staring at the ground but then look up and see two figures approaching me through the rain. I stop dead in my tracks. I want to turn and run – but fuck knows where and my legs won't work anyway. I recognise him, DI Dante, old Owl Face. That look of victory in his eyes. And I just stand there, let them come for me.

"Beaumont Alexander, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Krystal McQueen."

My legs begin to lose all feeling and I think I'm falling but they grab me just in time, someone from behind, getting hold of my wrists.

I look back towards the glowing doorway of the club; inside people will still be dancing, huddling in corners knocking back the cocktails, in the toilets snorting coke, hitting on each other, gossiping about what they'd just seen.

"You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

So this is it.

"C'mon son," the copper who's grabbed my arms says.

A lone paparazzo appears, almost wetting himself as he snaps the biggest exclusive of his career. For a split second, as he lowers his camera, we lock eyes, the disgraced soccer superstar and the gutter press photographer and where I thought I'd see hate I just see the same look I've seen in the eyes of so many others: gratitude. I shake my head slowly. He just shrugs.

"Good luck Beaumont."

Snap, snap, snap.

They push me into the police car, I'm so stunned I can't resist, and then they slam the door. What happens now? I'm up Shit Creek, no lie. And I'm weeping, gagging on my tears, can't help it, and all I can see in my head is Mum, standing small and fragile on her doorstep, wringing her hands. The only one who cares, what would she think? I've got to stop crying, it doesn't look good.

It's all Lovers and Haters in this police car. The uniformed guy who's sitting with me in the back is on my side, kind of. He smiles sympathetically whenever Dante and the other non-uniformed guy in the front, the Haters, make sarcastic comments: "So sorry to pull you away from the party, Mr. Alexander, we'll have to see if the penthouse cell is free, won't we, Joe?"

It's all underwater, just like when she died, mustn't think about that though, in case they can read my mind. The neon lights of the West End flash by like the ending from a film. All these landmarks of my now-dead life.

I've managed to stop crying, but can't get rid of the lump in my throat and my mind is racing like I'm on speed, from thoughts of dark, cold and small cells to the goose-down duvet I'll probably never wake up with again to her, from the look in her eyes, "you fucker", to all the words that would be written and said against me, and back to the cold, concrete cell again. Prison, prisoners, what will they do to me? Unthinkable. Life, that's the sentence for murder, but maybe the judge will be a Lover…surely some of the jurors will be. But … but yet there's no body, there's no proof she is dead … or is there? All these thoughts thrashing about in my head, hope having it out with despair.

Yellow sunlight is leaking through a slit in the grey clouds by the time we stop. I've got no idea where we are but there are police cars parked up everywhere so I figure it's a police station. The air is cold against my cheeks, I can't walk properly and the uniform has to help me. I watch the backs of Dante and the other one walking ahead of us, their coats flowing behind them. They take me to a desk where a balding, stern-faced uniform is standing. I notice his eyes widen when he clocks me, and I turn away, but it's then that I notice there's a load of rough looking bastards sitting on a bench behind me. They're staring at me too.

Dante says: "Our VIP murder suspect," to the guy on the desk. Sarcastic twat. I hate him so much, I wish I could just plant one on the fucker, but I'm too weak and that probably wouldn't be the best idea anyway.

"Name? What is your name?" the uniform behind the desk is asking. I'm back in school, being told off by Mr. Taylor, haven't learnt my times tables. I manage to stammer my name, as if the stupid fuck needs to be told it, and then my address.

"Four Gorse Lane…." Not The Love Palace any more.

The man makes me empty my pockets out onto the desk – my iPhone, wallet, house and car keys, chewing gum, no cocaine wraps thank God, or Mattaus' party bag, don't know what happened to that, but then that was a different world ago now.

The guy is talking to me, but I can't really concentrate, my head's spinning and I feel like I might throw up in his face. I manage to catch "legal rights", "right to a phone call". I feel like I'm on one of them police TV shows – everyone has the right to a phone call. And of course, a lawyer, that's what I need. Serge will sort me out with one. But who? Not my lawyer Derek Johansson though who deals with nice, boring things like contracts and transfers. This needs a different kind of lawyer, maybe the kind who gets rape charges dropped and assault charges thrown out of court. I suddenly think of Kevin Jackson, an old team mate from years back, who'd got drunk then drove his Ferrari into a five-year-old boy. He got three years for manslaughter in some cushy prison. He'd bragged to everyone before the trial that he'd got the best lawyer in the country … what the fuck was his name? Something posh sounding. Kevin Jackson was a nasty piece of shit though, and back then I wondered what kind of lawyer would represent a person like that for such a horrible crime – killing a little kid. But now, fuck it, I need a lawyer like that. Serge will know the guy, must do.

I'm at a pay phone, with a uniform breathing down my neck next to me, and the shrill ring is burrowing deep into my brain. It seems to ring for ages before Serge finally answers, with a croaking, sleepy 'Hello?' like he's just woke up. What's the fucker doing asleep? Then I glance at the clock above the phone and realise it's 6am.

"Serge, it's Beaumont."

My mouth is so dry it's hard to speak and I have to keep swallowing hard.

"They've arrested me... I'm at the station now. Can you do something? I mean tell people –my Ma, and get me that lawyer, the one Kevin Jackson used, can you call him?"

I hear Serge whisper 'fuck' under his breath.

"Feers-Simpson, that was Kevin's lawyer, yeah I'll try to get hold of him."

"Cheers. This is bad shit, no lie." I say, my voice cracking as I try to keep it together. But he hangs up on me without replying.

"Don't let them break you, Monty!" someone shouts, from the direction of the bench, as I'm being led away. I don't look back though.

They take me into another room where another policeman pulls my finger onto an ink pad and then onto some kind of paper and then takes my photograph, the mug-shot. For some reason I think of this poster Krystal used to have of what's-her-name Dietrich and "I have been photographed to death" underneath her.

No doubt my mug-shot will be gracing the front pages tomorrow.

Then the Lover, the guy who'd sat with me in the police car comes back and takes me out of this room and down a narrow corridor. There are doors on either side with little slits in, and I can hear shouting and crying, like a football crowd but the voices are all on their own, separated from each other and coming from behind these doors, the cells. They're going to put me in one.

It's weird, it's like I can feel my freedom slipping away like sand in an egg-timer as I'm being led down this corridor. And then we get to mine – my cell.

Empty, which is something. But it's so small, and so grey, with no windows. Everything is concrete or tiles, like a grim football changing room, but it's so much worse than any I've ever been in, even those ones in dodgy East European places I can't pronounce the names of. It smells of disinfectant, but there's also an underlying smell, like vomit or stale piss. There's a dazzling fluorescent beam buzzing quietly above me and illuminating everything but it only makes the space more depressing. They can't leave me, Beaumont Alexander, here!

"Hopefully they won't be long, mate," the policeman says as he closes the door with a thud. Won't be long? How long can they leave me here? I'm totally freaking out – I haven't got a clue what happens now, what rights I have, nothing. I turn and look around me, the space is so small it's already suffocating me. There's a small, hard looking ledge with a blanket on, and in the corner a revolting, metal toilet, probably infested with germs. Jesus, the air is probably full of viruses and disease. I'll probably catch AIDS just from breathing. I sit down on the slab that's meant to be a bed – a thin mattress with a rough yellow blanket and small pillow covered in one of those rough, disposable pillowcases like you get in pleb class on a plane. This is so gross, I can't even think about it. I want my king-size bed and goose-down duvet so badly right now, more than anything in the world. And I don't even want to think what sick fuckers have been here before me: drunks pissing themselves, paedos wanking off, all kinds of weirdos. But here I am, a murderer, the worst crime of all, well probably not worse than kiddie-fiddling, but fuck I don't know, all I do know is this is so the worst situation ever, guaranteed. I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them.

They used to scream my name, "Go Monty, go! Go Monty go!" they would shout as I tore down the pitch, beating defender after defender, one on one with the goalie, sending the ball sailing into the back of the net, then I'd charge off, away from the goal, sliding down on my knees towards them, the other players piling on top me. How can it have come to this?

Fuck, I'm so tired. Grim as it is, I crawl under the itchy blanket and pull it over my head. If only I could curl up here and disappear…

I wake up suddenly. My body is stiff and I sit up, squinting in this bright light, trying to figure out where the hell I am. And then I remember. The blank grey walls of the cell seem closer, as if the room got smaller whilst I was sleeping. How long was I asleep? Then I notice that someone is looking through the little slit thing in the door. It's opening…

"Breakfast…enjoy," the uniform says, placing a tray down by the bed. I don't recognise him, or at least don't remember.

Breakfast? It was early morning when they brought me in. Is it still the same morning, or is it the next? There's no way of knowing. My head's so fuzzy with sleep and the bright glow from the fluorescent light hurts my eyes. It must be the same day, I can't have been asleep for more than a couple of hours because I'm still tired as fuck. I want to pull the blanket back over my head but it's too hot so I throw it off me and swing my legs round so I'm sitting on the side of the bed, and I take a look at the tray. There's a large paper cup of water, some white toast with a sachet of butter and little plastic tub of strawberry jam, and a banana.

My stomach is churning and the toast looks pretty minging, but I'm totally parched so I take the cup of water and down it in one. That makes me aware of how much I need to piss, but that means using that gross, metal toilet. There's no other option though. So I stand above it, listening to my thick, dark yellow piss hit the metal, the smell lingering after I've flushed it away.

Imagine if they're filming me, CCTVing all this. There'll probably be a video of me pissing in a dirty prison cell toilet up on YouTube within the next hour. It's bound to be all over the papers now. That lone paparazzo must be celebrating. I don't know if I'll ever see a newspaper again.