The Other Lives Read online

  BELTER

  THE SWING DOORS CLATTER behind me and I drop down the steps, two at a time, leaping the final three onto the main exit corridor to my dressing room. The walls are lined with people: production staff, audience members who have wangled their way backstage, guests from earlier in the show and a few suits milling about whom I don’t recognise. One girl, who I remember had been on to talk about her brother’s credit card debt, smiles at me as I pass through the mist of her perfume. It’s a cheap brand but she’s used it sparingly. I give her a little wink.

  There are shouts and grins. One man in his twenties steps out in front of me, beaming. His body and face bulge with excess and he wears a T-shirt explaining just how positively he feels about beer. His belly jiggles with excitement. ‘Elliot!’ he shouts, as if just letting me know that he has recognised me by reciting my nomenclature will impress me to the point that I will want to be his friend.

  My path is blocked, and for a horrifying second I think he might be trying to tell me he wants a cuddle. I flash him a look — a close relative of the one I gave our shamed professor as I dished out his punishment, but nowhere near as dangerous — and he withers a little. Then I smile at him.

  ‘All right, mate?’ I say, in my best South London drawl, and I give his hot, damp, fat-caked shoulder a single slap. This brings him immense pleasure.

  ‘All right,’ he twitters, and I pass safely on my way, wiping my palm on my jacket.

  My PA, Nina, catches up with me, muttering something into her headset. A swarm of people have decided to follow us, and she nods at a couple of security guards, who usher them back.

  ‘Good show, Mr Childs?’ asks Nina, breathlessly. She is a small woman and having trouble keeping up with me. I turn left towards the lifts. Nina’s heels click behind me.

  ‘Good?’ I reply. ‘That, my little Nina, was a fucking belter.’

  The lift arrives and we step inside. I grin at her as the lift rises. She is a young, attractive Indian girl — high caste — and I have often considered the pros and cons of pushing things a little too far over the accepted boundaries of behaviour between boss and PA. Right now, the pendulum hangs in the balance, right in the middle. Unfortunately for me, Nina is a very talented personal assistant whom I would have great difficulty replacing.

  In short, she is too good at her job to fuck.

  The lift pings and the doors open onto the fifth floor.

  ‘What do you have for me?’ I say as we walk to my dressing room.

  ‘A few things this evening,’ she says, tracing a pen down her clipboard.

  I tut.

  ‘Disappointing. Go on then.’

  ‘Meet and greet with some of the audience.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, really?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Childs.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Five. Two from the show and three who won a competition.’

  She shows me her clipboard.

  ‘What competition?’

  ‘The one you put out in Cosmo.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, a bit of warning next time, eh? Right, let’s see now…’

  I run my finger down the list.

  ‘Her…and her. The rest can fuck off.’

  ‘What should I tell them?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know. Tell them I’m very sorry, last-minute business, big boy made me do it, dog ate it, shat my pants, don’t care, make something up, all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Dinner at the Cherry Tree.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Some investors from New York to talk about the US show.’

  ‘That explains those suits in the corridor. Patti will be there too, right?’

  I’m a little pissed off now. The buzz from the show is dwindling and suddenly I have two things I would rather not be doing to look forward to.

  ‘Anything else? Come on, Nina.’

  ‘Yes, just one more thing…’

  ‘Oh, by the way, my fucking clipboard…’

  I shoulder through the door to my dressing room. We are five floors up in what used to be a riverside Victorian mill. Inside is red brick and floorboard, bigger than most London flats. Leather sofas circle a huge television. A mahogany desk and bar take up the other side of the room, and a large window at the back provides the light. A fire escape leads down from a balcony, and the Thames worms by beneath us, trailing death and decay. Beyond, suffering its second week of torrential rain, sprawls the jagged London skyline.

  I enjoy having a view like this; it provides distance. Because the thing about this city is that you’re never far from the crumbling ruins of what it used to be. It doesn’t matter how many steel structures you erect, there is always some reminder of the rot beneath it all. You’re never far from a wood-wormed banister, or a weed-filled puddle, or a graffiti-scrawled wall, or a person.

  Or a rat.

  A tall, sleek-haired man in a three-thousand pound suit beams at me from the centre of the room. Nina clears her throat.

  ‘…First you have a meeting with Mr Hunt,’ she finishes.

  ‘Elliot,’ booms Callum Hunt. His accent is well-measured — just enough of the hills to suggest soul and substance, just enough of the Glasgow to harden his words with gritty charm.

  ‘Callum,’ I say, heading for the bar. ‘Wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Thought I’d drop in, run over a few things before tomorrow.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Please.’

  I pour two vodkas.

  From the corner of my eye I catch Nina still standing in the doorway.

  ‘Anything else, Nina?’

  ‘No. Meet-and-greet’s in five.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She leaves and I pass Callum his drink.

  ‘Some show tonight,’ he says, reclining in an armchair. ‘That poor bastard didn’t know what hit him.’

  ‘That’s the idea, Callum.’

  He nods in appreciation.

  ‘So, the show tomorrow. Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page with our friend, Mary.’

  ‘Mary O’Brien isn’t my friend. I’m taking her down, you needn’t worry about that.’

  Hunt’s expression sours at my suggestion that he’s anything but in control of the situation. I hear the tectonics of rage shifting in the tone of his voice.

  ‘A man like me doesn’t worry, Elliot. He just makes the necessary checks.’

  Callum Hunt — what can I tell you? He gives new meaning to the phrase ‘political animal’. He’s in his forties now but he started young, blitzing through the ’90s and the glory days of New Labour, defecting to the Tories after 9/11 and spending the next ten years gallivanting through parties like a teenager in a whorehouse.

  But he soon grew tired of the Westminster guffaws and set up as an independent, using the might of his media empire and an army of the country’s best PR minds. Not that he needs them. Callum Hunt is a PR machine. He needs no guidance.

  ‘Checks?’

  ‘You’re a wild card, Elliot. That’s your thing. Unpredictable, untethered, I like it. Just so long as I know which way you’re flying. I wouldn’t want to find myself in George’s shoes, and neither would you. You wouldn’t find me —ah — stumbling quite as readily.’

  ‘We had a deal, Callum. You needn’t worry.’

  I said ‘worry’ again. A bit risky, that, even for me.

  He clears his throat to let it be known that he’s letting me off for a second time. I’m so naughty sometimes.

  ‘Like I said — I’m not worried. But all the same, I’d like to know we share a common interest. Tell me where you stand on O’Brien. Personally, I mean.’

  You might remember Mary O’Brien from the ’90s. She started as one of those in-between presenters on the late-night ‘yoof’ shows, green hair and awful clothes running between studios or out on the street annoying people in pubs. She was famous for that spot where she planted a girl in a club and filme
d her with hidden cameras. The girl would wait on her own to be chatted up, recording all the dreadful pick-up lines her would-be suitors tried on her. Then our Mary would swoop in and corner the poor wankers, reeling off a series of cock-withering comebacks. Students loved it — girls especially, of course. She got her own show — late night, BBC2 — then morning television, a few months covering for a breakfast show presenter, a failed single-series sitcom followed by a stint on the afternoon slot for a North West local radio station.

  After dropping from the collective consciousness and spending the early part of the twenty-first century in obscurity, she resurfaced in 2011 with a surprise book. It was called Join the Dots and was, on the surface, a nauseating memoir of a two-year-long backpacking trip around South America and Africa but was, beneath the surface, a nauseating narrative on the importance of community.

  Surprise, surprise, Mary’s book was the Christmas bestseller that year. Work offers flooded in — television, advertising and the like — all of which she turned down. Instead, she used her new soapbox to launch campaign after campaign for each and every left-wing, liberal, do-good cause that caught her eye. Her latest one is to save the food banks. That’s why she’s coming on the show. We’re going to talk about hunger.

  Basically, she represents everything I am not. She is my opposite, my yin, my nemesis.

  Oh. And, er, did I mention that she used to be as fat as a horse? She’s not anymore, you understand, not now she’s slimmed down for her cause. It wouldn’t do to be obese if your raison d’être is the redistribution of food to the homeless, poverty-stricken and starving, now would it?

  But boy, was she a bloater, and she does not like to be reminded of it.

  I drain my drink and pour another, scrolling through my phone with my free hand. I see that I’ve been active on social media this morning — a few supportive tweets for the PM’s speech on immigration and one condemning the assailants of a one-armed Olympic athlete who was mugged at the weekend. I didn’t make these personally, of course; Nina would have seen to them. I used to do everything myself, but ever since I caused that — what do they call it, Twitter Storm — with what I thought were some pretty witty and insightful comments about Mexicans, it was decided that we should probably check and proof things before I let my Tweets twitter off.

  Now it’s all regulated. Nina knows the drill so well now that she’s virtually me, albeit a me that’s been squeezed through a tube of taste and political correctness that I’d rather not be squeezed through. It’s a me without the me-ness, which is basically how everyone is on social media.

  I’m not banned completely, you understand; I just have to follow the agreed standards. I scroll down the LOLs and insults and see Mary O’Brien’s name whizz by. Useful. I backtrack slowly till the Tweet reappears.

  Mary O’Brien ‏@yourmaryobrien 2hrs

  Looking forward to appearing on the Truth Be Told show with @theelliotchilds tomorrow. Maybe I’ll learn something…or maybe he will. #PigsMightFly

  Well. Well, I mean really. Thank you, Mary. Thank you.

  ‘Mary O’Brien stands for inclusiveness, acceptance and equality,’ I say, idly thumbing my reply. I show Hunt the screen.

  Elliot Childs ‏@theelliotchilds Just now.

  @yourmaryobrien #PigsMightFly — that they might, Mary. What is it from Dublin these days, Ryan Air?

  ‘She’s the enemy, Callum.’

  ‘Elliot.’ Hunt beams, handing me the phone. ‘I had no idea you were so political.’

  ‘I’m not. Never have been. It’s just that…’

  I spread my hands, Jesus-style.

  ‘We’re all in this together? Never appealed to me.’

  Callum pouts and looks sagely at the floor. Then he takes his drink to the window, gazes out at the apocalyptic swathes of rain battering the city and sighs. It’s the kind of sound that would, if you heard it from the entrance of a cave, make you reconsider your evening’s accommodation.

  ‘It’s all gone to fuck, Elliot, and it’s their fault. Liberal, lefty, communist, socialist, fucktards. They’ve had their time and it’s over. They’ve failed. You know that, I know that, everyone knows it. It’s time for the big boys to step in and take control, right?’

  He turns.

  ‘Only question is, Elliot, which side are you on?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  He gives me a once-over, then nods to himself as if he’s decided something.

  ‘This time next year I’m going to be running this shit-hole.’

  I’m somewhat taken aback — I had no idea Hunt had his eyes set on my studios. I must have shown it too, because he grins and sets me straight.

  ‘The country, Elliot. I’m going to be running the country. Everything’s in place. I know what’s going to happen, when it’s going to happen, and who it’s going to happen to. What stories, which papers, whose glory, whose disgrace. Hell of a year coming up, but at the end of it I’ll be the man in charge. Do you believe me?’

  ‘I have no reason not to.’

  His smile twitches and he gives a dry huff — another free pass, probably my last. He ambles towards me, heels knocking sharply on oak.

  I decide to adjust my tone.

  ‘You’re sure to make a strong —’

  But he’s not interested.

  ‘I’m building a new world, Elliot, ground up, and people like O’Brien have no place in it. But you do. You’re a strong voice and people listen to you. They like you.’

  He stops in front of me, taking full advantage of his three-inch height advantage.

  ‘Even though you’re a cunt.’

  The word shivers between us like a lit fuse. I sense it is my move.

  ‘Because I’m a cunt,’ I reply.

  His face stretches into a grin.

  ‘Now you’re talking my language.’

  He waggles his empty glass. I take it to the bar.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Elliot, is that a voice like yours, well, that’s power. With that many people in the palm of your hand, you can influence a generation. Tell them what to think, how to feel, what to like, what to fear.’

  I pour our drinks, letting him speak.

  ‘I need the right people on my team. I need people with balls who aren’t afraid to speak up, who won’t kowtow to all those pansy-arsed bleeding hearts out there. What I absolutely don’t need is uncertainty. Grey thinking, soul-searching, flaky behaviour — none of that can happen on my watch.’

  I hand him his drink.

  ‘So, you want people to say what they like, so long as it’s what you like.’

  ‘Play on my team and I’ll guarantee you absolute freedom to say and do as you please.’

  ‘What makes you think I don’t already have it?’

  He gives me a look that suggests I should know better.

  ‘I know you’re under fire, Elliot. All those cheap-suited wankers upstairs trying to soften you for the sponsors, all those bastard, parasitic lawyers scared of a fight. I had them too back in the day, but I’ve brushed them aside. And I can do the same for you.’

  He begins to rotate his glass, and looks down into the thick swirls of liquor coating its sides.

  ‘And, er, let’s not forget that my team has the most sweeties. And we all like sweeties, don’t we?’

  ‘By sweeties, I assume you mean cash.’

  Hunt raises his glass.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’

  He’s right, of course; the world is changing. I was being honest when I said I was not politically minded, but things are pretty shaky out there and I want to be on the right side of the line, so to speak.

  But Hunt…I wonder: Is he being honest?

  Now, there are a number of tried and tested methods you can employ to tell you if a person is lying. You have the usual body language tells — fidgeting, touching the face, shallow breathing, that kind of thing. Then changes in speech — slower or faster, higher or lower — forced smiles, phrase repetition, honestl
y, it’s a whole art form in itself.

  A better way is to ask them point blank if they’re lying. A challenge like that usually releases such a cavalcade of tells that they may as well be a fruit machine at a funeral.

  Of course, the problem with challenges is that they kind of put your would-be fibber in a bad mood. And I don’t particularly want to put Hunt in one of them.

  No, the best method of determining whether someone is lying — the 100% undisputed, infallible, surefire method — is to know exactly what that person is thinking. You need to get inside their heads.

  And that is something that I, Elliot Childs, happen to be able to do.

  SOMEBODY ELSE'S DREAM

  WHEN I WAS A boy I had a dream. I was standing in a field beneath a slate-coloured sky filled with the sound of waves breaking, slow and enormously against some distant, megalithic shore. But closer was the sound of scratching, like a rodent’s claws on wood.

  In my hand I held a taut string connected to a paper plane, which soared in slow circles above. An immense crowd of strangers surrounded me, each with a flat oval of skin where their face should have been. I was lost within them with nothing but my paper plane.

  Then whatever was scratching broke through and the dream became another; one that had nothing to do with me.

  In the morning I told my father.

  ‘I had a dream last night,’ I said, standing at his office door. ‘But it wasn’t mine. I didn’t like it.’

  I expected no response; my father was a distracted man who, when he wasn’t abroad, locked himself in his office — a tumbling cityscape of books and paper — and worked on things I did not understand. Even the most cursory of responses — a grunt, nod or, if I was lucky, a smile over his shoulder — would have thrilled me beyond measure. But this time he stopped, his finger scratching to a halt halfway through a line of words. He turned to face me and my face flushed.

  ‘What was your dream, Elliot?’ he said, removing his spectacles.