KAYLEY WAS BORED. It turned out that being in hiding from vengeful criminal forces wasn’t as exciting as it sounded. Her dad was a good enough bloke, but he had been installed in front of Test Match Special with a four-pack of Stella for hours now. Her friends kept texting to ask where she was, and she had had enough of telling lies for one lifetime, so she thought it easier just to ignore them.
The day outside was burning hot, more like June than the start of September, and the house was stifling.
She went upstairs to the little box-room of Dad’s two-bedroomed semi. It was a new build, all nicely finished and shiny, but poky as hell. She could touch the opposite walls in her bedroom at the same time. All she could fit in there, along with Dad’s boxes of sporting magazines and memorabilia, was her airbed and three binbags of random possessions, quickly gathered together the day before.
As camping trips went, it was pretty rubbish.
She sat on her air mattress, moping for a while, before coming to a decision.
She couldn’t spend another breathless minute cooped up here. She had to get out for a walk.
But she would have to look as anonymous as possible. She wouldn’t wear any of the pretty, stylish clothes she had recently bought herself from Zara and Topshop – far too identifying. Instead, she scrabbled in her bag for the old estate uniform of dark hoodie and trackpants. She didn’t even know why she’d packed them – she’d been on the verge of giving them to a charity shop.
It was funny how such a simple thing as changing outfits could give you a completely different attitude, she thought. Once out of her white shell top and flower-patterned shorts and into the old gear, she felt suddenly embittered and aggressive. The core of her hardened, and she was defensive and on alert. She had forgotten what bloody hard emotional work it was to live up there.
Thank God I got out. Well, God and Jenna.
She pulled her newly styled hair up into a skin-tightening ponytail and put up her hood.
There was no mirror in the room so she had to go into the bathroom.
She gave her reflection an appalled smile. She looked so dangerous, so hostile. Had she really walked the streets like this, thinking nothing of it? If the new Kayley met the old one in a dark alley, she might run away from her.
She put her phone in the pocket of her hoodie and tried to make it to the front door with ninja stealth, so Dad wouldn’t hear her.
She wasn’t quite there on the ninja front though, apparently.
‘You going out, love?’ he called from the living room, turning down the soundtrack of leather on willow.
‘Just fancied a bit of a walk. Might go down by the lakes,’ she said with exaggerated casualness.
‘Is that a good idea? You know that Harville fucker’s out and about.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Dad. He’ll be busy wheeling and dealing with his shady mates somewhere. He’s not going to be walking the streets round here.’
‘I bloody well hope not. Don’t be long. And bring us twenty Players, will you? Here, take a tenner.’
She went into the living room, looking guiltily away from her father, not wanting him to comment on her changed attire.
‘What you wearing all that old crap for, Kay?’ he said, surprised, rummaging in his pocket for the banknote. ‘Thought you were past all that, getting a decent wage from Her Ladyship up there.’
‘Yeah, I am. Just don’t want to be recognised, like.’
‘Oh, aye. Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’ He sighed and handed her the money. ‘Like I said. Don’t be long. You know I worry about you, duck.’
‘I know, Dad. I’ll be fine. Just need a bit of air, that’s all.’
‘Well, if you find some, bring it back.’ He laughed wheezily.
Kayley hated the wheezing. He was only fifty, for Christ’s sake. But she took the money and smiled. ‘Twenty Players, yeah?’
‘Get some for yourself, love.’
‘You know I’ve given up.’
‘Oh, right. I forgot.’
And with that, she was released. She walked the bright, unfinished-looking pavements of the new estate, hurrying past people washing cars and children scootering up and down the burning-hot asphalt roads. People took pride in their houses and gardens here, the way she remembered them doing when she was a little girl.
When had that changed, down on the old estate? When had the smart flowerbeds begun to turn into waist-high weed-fests? When had the gleaming windows dulled into plywood boards with gang tags sprayed on them?
About the same time the mine had closed.
Obvious answer, div-brain.
Turning out of the little warren of cul-de-sacs on to the high road above Bledburn, she pulled her hood further over her face, conscious of each car that passed. Harville or one of his people could spot her at any time. She adopted a deliberately slouchy posture, shoulders hunched, eyes to the floor. Did it make her look more or less noticeable? She couldn’t decide.
Perhaps it really wasn’t a good idea to come out today. She was on the point of turning back when she rounded the bend that brought the old estate into view, shimmering in a heat haze down in its basin. The red rows of old 1930s houses curved and clustered, while in the very centre, beached in sparse greenery, lay the 1960s precinct with its outbuildings and blocks of flats.
Out of habit, her eye was inevitably drawn to the youth club, her former place of employment. She stopped and squinted harder. Something was going on down there. Little specks of people were thronging into clusters by the chain link fence. There were vans parked up everywhere, and stuff being moved around on trolleys.
‘What the …?’
Curiosity impelled her. She stepped off the pavement and began to descend the steep grassy slope that led down to the rear of the estate. If she stayed high enough, nobody would notice her, as long as she kept away from the back gardens and streets.
She moved through the high grass, the prickly darts brushing at her hands. As a kid, she would have plucked them off and thrown them at other children, hoping the prickly end would stick into their clothes. Flea darts, they called them, for some reason. Struck by nostalgia, she broke off one of the heads and threw it aimlessly into the dried long grass.
The miniature people were growing and gaining defin-ition now. She could make out some of the lettering on the vans. Christ! BBC! What the hell was going on?
Forgetting the need for discretion in her sudden panic, she ran the rest of the way down the slope, through the alleyways between blocks of houses, until she was at the rear of the complex that housed the youth club, community centre and the old library (now a credit union). She was at the back of a large, heaving crowd. Kids jumped up to try and see over the shoulders of taller people. There was a lot of jostling.
She moved quietly around the perimeter of the mob until she was closer to the front of the building. Before she knew it, she was caught up and moving forward in a surge of people, having to fight to keep on her feet. Now she could hear shouts that made what was going on a bit clearer.
‘Deano!’
‘Over here, mate!’
‘Fuck off back to America!’
The last one came from a teenage boy in a group, all of them looking mightily pleased with their little act of rebellion. They held up single fingers, but they were a lone hostile island amid a sea of fans.
She was plunged this way and that, elbows everywhere, when somebody turned to her.
‘Oi, that’s my foot … Kayley?’
Shit! One of the old crew. Time to get out of here.
She fought to get out of the hot, heaving mass, afraid again of being seized, taken, beaten, anything, and ran back to the less populated area. Now the backs of the buildings were almost deserted, everyone having run forward to see where the action was.
‘Jeez,’ she whispered to herself, mopping her brow under the hood.
She put her hands in the front pockets of her hoodie and found something else there, along with her dad’s tenner. Oh. The last time she’d worn this, she’d …
She brought out a key ring with a lone silver key on it. It was the key to the back gate of the youth club, last used when she’d had to take a big delivery of pop and crisps for a disco. When she’d been sacked, nobody had remembered that there were duplicates to all the keys, including this rarely used number.
With trembling hands, she unlocked the padlock and slipped into the yard. A few stragglers noticed and shouted.
‘Look, we can get in the back!’
But she held up a hand, shaking her head vigorously as she re-locked the padlock and darted away to the stores, which were unlocked.
It was a good place to hide. Cool, dark, uninhabited, the little room was stacked with boxes. An old fridge hummed in the corner. Whatever was going on was happening in the main hall – the offices outside in the corridor were probably empty. Perhaps she could sneak in and get a peek at Deano and whatever he was doing.
She opened the door as silently as possible and crept along the passageway. The door at the end, leading to the main hall, was open. She pressed herself against the wall, seeing nothing but camera flashes and the big picture of a dope-smoking rave crocodile one of the kids had painted on the far wall. Not Jason this time.
There was a massive round of applause, then the screech of feedback as somebody tried to gain control of the useless microphone. She’d had endless trouble with that shitty thing when she’d deejayed the youth club discos. Apparently it hadn’t been replaced yet, then.
‘Right … yeah? Is that OK now? Right. Sorry. Good thing the band aren’t here, eh? The feedback would have killed you all by now.’
There was scattered laughter and a whoop.
‘Anyway, looks like we’re sorted now, so hello, Bledburn!’ He shouted the last two words, and his long tail on the ‘burn’ was drowned out by rapturous cheers and whistles.
‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he said, as the noise fell. ‘I’m just starting to wake up to the fact that I’ve spent the last twenty years living without my heart – ’cos I left it here. Thanks for looking after it for me.’
‘Aww’ noises drifted into the corridor. Kayley stuck out her tongue, feeling her gag reflex springing into action. Or was it her bullshit monitor? One of the two. He knew how to play a crowd, even a tough crowd like this.
His words droned into a blur as she looked around her, wondering exactly how she was going to extricate herself from this situation. She had been seen and recognised. No doubt the bush telegraph would have spread around the local crowd by now, and those who were involved with Harville’s little gang would have their eyes peeled and knuckledusters at the ready.
Footsteps came from the back of the hall into the corridor. As quickly as she could, Kayley slipped behind the office door and held her breath. The footsteps walked past. She heard the fridge door being yanked open – you really did have to yank that thing, Kayley recalled with a shaky smile – and the clink of bottles being taken out. Then the footsteps passed again.
As Kayley popped her head back out, she recognised the back view of the bottle carrier.
‘Mia!’ she mouthed to herself, knowing the bleached blonde head of her old friend turned betrayer anywhere.
She stayed where she was for the remainder of the press conference or meeting or whatever it was, re-tuning to what Deano Diamond was saying.
‘That’s why I was so keen to get involved with this project. It was Jenna’s idea, and I’ll give her full credit for it, but she’s had her hands full since then …’
Pause for laughter and rude remarks from the crowd. Kayley bristled. Cheeky bastard!
‘So, I’m honoured to take up the baton and be the sponsor of Bledburn’s Got Talent. Auditions will be held here over the course of next week, and the final will be filmed, hopefully for television, at Bledburn Civic Centre on the twentieth of September. The footage will be part of the documentary film I’m making, and the winner will get free management from my record label for a minimum of one year. That means gigs, a recording session and promotional work on radio and TV, among other things, possibly up to and including global megastardom. Are you up for it? I know I would have been.’
There was a roar of crowd approval, but Kayley wasn’t inclined to join in.
Sneaky git, she thought. Getting hold of Jenna’s idea and pinching it, so he can take all the glory.
Kayley wondered what Jenna would say when she was told, hoping she wouldn’t have to be the one to break the news. A little pang of regret went through her. This was supposed to be hers and Jenna’s project, a little something for the local youngsters on the estate. Kayley had been looking forward to being involved.
She was so busy wallowing in her regrets that she didn’t realise the meeting was breaking up until loud voices directly outside the office galvanised her into action. Not quickly enough, though, because she was still trying to crawl under the desk when the door was pushed wide and a bemused voice said, ‘Oh. Hello.’
She whacked the top of her head on the underside of the desk.
‘Fuck!’ she hissed.
The temptation to curl into a tight ball and hope she might suddenly develop hedgehog-prickles was strong, but somehow she found an ounce of chutzpah from somewhere and she turned to face Deano Diamond with a weak smile.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell anyone I’m here, will you? I’m just somebody who used to work here, collecting some stuff. But they don’t know about it and they’d only get funny with me, so—’
‘Chill,’ he said, interrupting nothing because she’d run out of breath and words anyway.
Good grief. She couldn’t stop staring. She’d seen his photogenic, telegenic face a million times all over every medium, but in the flesh he was somehow even more … even more … Deano Diamond … than he was on TV.
She’d glimpsed him at the exhibition, of course, but there had been such a kerfuffle of couture frocks and flashbulbs and security guards that she hadn’t really had a chance to take him in properly.
But now, looking him full in the face as he stood a couple of feet away from her, she had the vivid impression that he was surrounded by a kind of force field of glamour. Unlike Jenna, he made no effort to tone himself down for Bledburn. Instead, he seemed to light the drab little office room with a million megawatts of sheer charisma.
He was thinner than she expected, almost emaciated, but the whipcord-tautness of his body suited him. Squarish bony shoulders emerged from a ripped-up vest proclaiming him to be a ‘CORPORATE WHORE’ – an ironic allusion to an accusation that had been made by a famous rock critic in a review of his most recent album. Another vest, in jumbo fishnet, was layered underneath it. His skinny jeans were pinstriped and he wore a number of chain belts with padlocks hanging off them. Kayley was startled to see that his feet were bare, and he had a tattoo along the arch of one of them, some kind of whirly-twirly thing that she couldn’t identify in the split-second she spent registering it.
His face was what she really had to look at, long and hard, as if it were a puzzle she had to solve. It was familiar and yet different. She had seen his cheekbones, his multiple-earrings, his slicked back, silver-streaked hair so many times, and they were no different now. What had changed was his eyes. At least – they hadn’t changed materially. They were still the same piercing combination of blue, grey and silver that had gazed out from the poster on her teenage bedroom wall. But the eyes in the poster had been blank and cool, challenging her shelf of Goosebumps books and her collection of miniature troll dolls to find fault with them.
These eyes were looking at her.
These famous, amazing, iconic eyes were looking at Kayley Louise Milton and sort of seemed to be quite enjoying the experience.
Life just got weirder and weirder lately.