By the same author –
The Stevie McCabe novels
Clip Their Little Wings
Every Stone A Story
Black Wind Blows
From www.glasgownoirfiction.com
MY NAME
IS
NEVER WAS
John Callaghan
Oh
look at my face
My
name is might have been
My
name is never was
My
name's forgotten
Courtney Love
Celebrity Skin
About the author
John Callaghan was born and raised in Glasgow.
He left the city but it never left him.
Celebrity Skin
by Hole, copyright © 1998
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All characters in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright John Callaghan© 2012
Smashwords edition
ISBN 978-1-4710-7957-3
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, by any form or any means without the express written consent of the author and publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchasers.
www.glasgownoirfiction.com
For Ma and Da, RIP
All the events in this book are fictitious
and the characters are completely fabricated.
The city, though, is real.
Prologue
A television studio.
Or real life?
Or both?
I couldn’t tell by that point.
What was for certain was that I was being broadcast live, to an audience of millions, and I was holding a knife in my hand as the camera glared pitilessly at me.
The knife wasn’t a problem in itself, you see, it was more the dead woman lying on the floor where the viewing nation could clearly see her, vivid pools of scarlet staining the white halterneck dress with full circle pleated skirt, that she had worn to look like Marilyn Monroe in that movie that nobody had ever seen. But everybody had seen the photo, and the dress, that dress.
And here was me, holding the knife, streaked bloody along its length, dead woman a few feet away. I couldn’t call that a good thing, and I couldn’t really call it anything that had been in my plans for the evening.
What I hoped was that nobody would be calling it evidence, because if they did, there would be ten million witnesses.
Chapter 1 – Another Fine Mess I’ve Got Myself Into
I never planned to be on TV; Justin de Malbec was to blame for that.
And Manny Singh.
And, yes okay, me.
Money made me do it, like it does most things, for most people.
This thing hadn’t started in a TV studio, no, it started in a nightclub called Le Moulin Vert, on Hope Street, directly across from Central Station. A club where nobody seemed to care that the flashing green neon of the club sign that blinked over and down at the station actually read “La Moulin Vert”. At least the neon was intact, no popped tubes leaving an awkward incomplete crossword stuttering at the night.
Inside, in the pulsing dark of a stifling club, a smaller version of the same sign (correctly Frenched) above and to the left of the stage glowed without blinking and without repeating the error. On stage, below its emerald radiance, a glistening man in a bulging white suit stood in the spotlight and glazed at the audience, his attempted smile a creepy leer. He looked like an ice-dancer who had lost his skates but kept the jacket. Now, he was building up to the climax of his magic act, all too close and human in his panting anxiety and from my front-row table, I could hardly avoid straining along with him.
“A wise man once said, ladies and gentlemen, that what we do not understand, we must love or fear. And you will not have understood much of what you have seen tonight, but what you have witnessed on this stage is illusion, nothing more than misdirection and trickery. But, I guarantee you, you have nothing to fear, so only love remains… There may be mystery in what you have seen….”
The club sign winked into darkness and the spotlight on stage began strobing, while the man’s hands began to describe flickering, intertwining motions –
“….there may even be – whisper it quietly – there may even be magic...”
the strobing continued to dart across the room and a thrumming bass note began to pulse as his hands crabbed and flexed as if he was conducting a particularly intense orchestra –
“…let us concentrate, feel the sound, focus on the energy… do you believe? Do you believe in magic? Do you?....”
a rushing sound, now, distant waves from some alien ocean –
“… focus your minds, let yourself be taken by the sounds and the lights that spin around you!....”
he chopped his hands back and forward in the light, grimacing and straining, white gloves spinning like pale moths in a frantic dance –
“…do you feel it? Do you feel what is all around us? Do you feel the presence of something….immense?...”
- the strobing became more intense, the hissing waves and thundering bass built to a crescendo -
“… feel the presence….give ourselves to the spirit and let us see what marvels come forth!”
Suddenly, his arms shot wide apart, there was one sharp crack and then the synthesised sounds stopped, replaced by a soft whupping, while the strobing light continued, beginning to pick our white wraiths darting across the beam, first five, then ten, then dozens of white shapes whirling and spiralling in the beam. For a moment, there might have been a sealed world inside Le/La Moulin Vert where magic was happening, and then the shapes began to settle, the whupping sound clarified itself into the wingbeats of the scores of white doves that were still in the air, still gyrating in the light.
He had created them all, it seemed, from thin air.
Then the strobing stopped, the green neon sign began fizzing back to life, the Super Trouper light once more glared steady on the stage. The magician was taking his bow and the audience was clapping, some even yelling. He had delivered his payload and was returning to base, drinking in the applause.
Me? Part of me would like to say I drifted above it all, ignoring the cheap tricks, but that wouldn’t be true, because I was putting my hands together as much as the rest of the crowd. Not yelling, though – what am I, a cowhand? And anyway, as cheap tricks go, it looked like it probably cost a few bob.
“I thank you for your presence tonight, my friends. Thank you for your kind appreciation, you have been a wonderful audience. I hope you have enjoyed this show, this presentation, our dance with the unknown, our evening venture into the forests of mystery…but I can announce to you that this was a special show in more ways than you can know, because tonight was Justin de Malbec’s last-ever magic show!”
A soft insinuating sigh ran through the audience.
“Yes…because I can announce to you that from next weekend, I shall be retiring from the stage to make a different kind of magic on your television screens. I shall be behind the cameras, broadcasting live on the networks of the nation, bringing you the next, and biggest, television sensation of the age! You have all heard of that show – it’s called Unmissable You and your humble magician is the man behind that sensation. Yes, Unmissable You! I think it’s the most exciting thing to appear on your screens for years and I’m sure you will, too. So, it is for that reason that I thank you again for being such a great crowd tonight and allowing me to bring down the curtain on this part of my career on such a high note. From now on, please join me and my team for Unmissable You live on Channel 6, Friday night at 10 and every night after that! Eye thang-yew an’ goo’nayt-ah!”
Leaving aside the question of whether a high note could bring down a curtain at all, the old hack had given himself a big send-off. If the audience had sighed at the news of his retirement from magic, it had gulped and gasped at the mention of the words “Unmissable You”. And after that, it had buzzed and yelped at the very mention of the name. The great British public was more than excited about this apparent TV show…and, somehow, this jaded old pro was driving the bus.
None of which made it any clearer why my accountant had given me a ticket for this show, telling me I needed to go and see it. Which made a change from him telling me that my business was bust.
I had heard, barely, of “Justin de Malbec”, man of magic & mystery, but remembered him better from some of his previous failed voyages into the treacherous shallows of showbiz.
Justin de Malbec….Christ. He had once appeared in Glasgow variety theatres as a hypnotist, The Great Malbini; before that, an unfunny fringe comedy performer called G.L. Ballantyne; after that, he had been a low-rent crooner-u-like in the character of Frankie La Rossa; at various times, he had been a free-sheet astrologer named Vlad van den Kristall. And so on.
How I knew this – aside from simply drifting through life in this city for as long as I have – was that, on my good days, I actually managed to do some investigation. Which is also how I knew that, whatever exotic guises Justin de Malbec dreamt up for himself, his parents had wished him to be known as Graham Lugg when they held him in their arms at the Rottenrow maternity hospital, on a damp and dreary morning more years ago that he could afford to admit.
Only one man and yet so many names, so much striving, so little impact. Ego issues? Ambition issues? Lack-of-talent issues? Delusion issues? It seemed like Graham / Justin / Frankie / Vlad / G.L. had so many issues they were threatening to breed and become a survival threat to everything else in the local eco-system. As it would turn out, I was wrong about that.
Tonight, though, there was no time for my usual lucky-bag psychology because a standard-issue nightclub doorman was leaning over the table and saying that Mr de Malbec would see me backstage. It seemed as if the man was threatening to pay me money, so I was perfectly content to treat his latest grand persona as something very serious indeed. Justin / Graham, I could only conclude, was offering me a role in the business that’s like no other…and, yes indeed, everything about it was appealing.
My accountant wouldn’t let me admit to any other opinion.
Chapter 2 – Magimix TV
“Could you see the doves? Before the release, I mean? I was worried about that – it’s not part of my usual set, but I wanted tonight to be a wee bit special. It’s my last shot at this stuff, wanted to see if I could do it. Go out on a personal best. Could you see them?”
“Never noticed a thing. It was an impressive…stunt. A good way to sign off, if that’s your last gig.”
“Oh, you bet it’s my last. I’ve been around this business for….well, you tell me, you’re the detective.”
“I love it when people tell me what I am - validation. In case I forgot.”
“Aye, and Manny Singh also told me you’re a skint detective, in case you forgot that an’ all.”
“Right enough. So, yes, I know about your career. Your highly varied career.”
“Listen, Stevie – you don’t go by Stephen, do you? – you can get snotty with me up to a point, I quite like that, but don’t go over the score, eh? My highly varied career got me a four-bed detached over by Crookston Castle, I’ve always earned, I’m no’ some fuckin’ loser. It’s been not a bad living.”
“But now you’re into the big time?”
“Nothin’ bigger. You’ve seen all the buzz in the press? Haw, never mind the press, it’s the fuckin’ public, they’re buzzin’, too. Never been a lift-off like it. So you know how big this will be. Unmissable You will be the show of the year, dead cert, and mibbe one they’ll talk about for years.”
“What if I said I didn’t know? What if I said that this doesny seem like my kind of TV show?”
“Are you sayin’ that? You really never saw the…trails….the interviews…the press launch…the websites, virals…the big fuckin’ posters up and down the streets of this fair land? Christ, there was a hundred thousand people at Hampden Park to audition for the show. The place couldny hold them! Stopped traffic on the whole south side all day! You saw that, right? Mibbe you got stuck on a bus cuz of it? Those people, they got off their arses from every corner of the country – and Ireland, some of them from Holland and that, too – all to come to Glasgow because of Unmissable You. And the detective never noticed?”
“Oh, I noticed. Like you say, you’d have to be livin’ underground not to have. But I never noticed you, Justin. All I see is blondes from the tabloids and all these Z-listers giving it laldy, and then Shane Chase telling us all to tune in. Not Justin. Is it Justin, by the way, or…?”
“Justin’s fine. Manny told me you were a snotty bastard, as well as skint. Snotty enough to talk yourself out of a job, Stevie.”
“Is that me fired? Already? That’s a record, even for me.”
“Ah, naw. Don’t get me wrong. Just take a step down off that high ground there. I’m just sayin’, Stevie – remember who’s picking up the tab. I can see that snotty is good when it comes to your business. Up to a point.”
“So why don’t I see you up there on those posters? Why’s it Shane Chase and Jayney Bayliss in the papers and the websites?”
“Look, Stevie, they’re the faces, for sure. And they’re the biggest faces you can get for this kinna thing, am I right? I’m just backstage here, just making the machine go. Executive Producer, is what I am. Suits me, I don’t need the face-time. I mean, look at me, I’m wearing okay, but I’m no Brad Pitt.”
“You’re no Shane Chase, even.”
“No, but I’m making more from this than he will.”
“Which gets me to be the next question – how come a retired magician, former comedian -”
“- how the fuck am I even in this thing at all?”
“That’s it. Cuz, nice four-bedder over by Crookston Castle is all very well, but if what you say about this show -”
“Oh, no danger – everything I say about this show is golden.”
“- if that’s right, then it’s different league to the Moulin Vert and line-dancing nights at Steamboat Creek.”
“True what you say. It’s a nice wee living compared to…to everything you could ever dream. More.”
“So, like I say, how come? If I said copyright…?”
“Naw, say ‘format’.”
“You own the format?”
“Correct. This idea is mine. If they want to play, they pay. And it’s me gettin’ the bucks. And, actually, let me say this – a whole lot of the viewers are getting rich, too. That’s the secret, that’s why the format is genius.”
“Educate me.”
“Okay, so it starts with sixteen people in a house together…”
“Wait a minute - do I need to understand the show to do this job? I told you it never sounded like a good night in to me.”
“If you want to understand how it all works, yes, I need to explain. So, they’re all locked in the house together, and the cameras are on them all the time…”
“That’s just Big Brother.”
“Whoa, hear me out. The sixteen of them get to do a…a…a talent show thing. Sing, dance and that.”
“That’s just, I dunno, Pop Factor, all that shite.”
“And is that not some fuckin’ humongous success? But we’re not about that, this isny a freakshow.”
“And…I’m wingin’ it here – people phone up and pay money and get to vote the eejits off every so often?”
“Hey, Stevie, it’s like you actually watch some of these shows that you say you don’t.”
“I breathe this air, Justin.”
“Aye, well this is one for everybody, right up to the grannies. They’ll all be mainlinin’ this, cuz we let the sixteen of them out once a week to…’make a difference’. How’d ye like that?”
“Community work?”
“Dead on. Get a makeover done on some old couple’s garden, raise money for wee black weans, do some soup kitchen for the homeless, mental cases. You name it.”
“Justin…Justin, this is just every cheesy format in TV history papped in the Magimix and stuck back together with sellotape. It’s loopy.”
“Loopy, you say? Then how come it’s on Channel 6 every night? Listen, once you let all those contestants out of the studio, it’s not just a TV show any more. We’ve got sixteen separate media storms – sixteen times the exposure! They’re going to places all over the country, all the local TV are watching every step they take, never mind just Channel 6, we’re webcasting live streams, every tabloid is filling a dozen pages. Nobody has ever seen anything like this, ever. It’ll be a media volcano.”
“Eh…’Media volcano’? Fucksake, Justin, I hope that’s in your first night press release – if you’re still doing anythin’ as old-school as press releases…..see, I hear what you say…All this stuff sells, I know, and if you’re taking the view that double the format is double the good news, then okay, you’re beating the shit out of every format ever, so…”
“You’re still not convinced?”
“Talk about the money. It’s the money that makes it work.”
“Sure. ‘course, the money is part of the format, too. Also my idea. Let’s talk about the money – but tell you what, let’s do it in the car. I want you to see Unmissable You. It’s your wee preview of history. And you can meet Emmelle.”
Chapter 3 – Cash Is King
A black saloon waited by the kerb in Hope Street, some kind of Mercedes. It looked awfully like one I had taken a set of tools to, one time, over in Giffnock, to demonstrate to somebody that consequences still existed. Bad memories, something still unfinished there.
Tonight, though, a bulk loomed in the front seat as De Malbec and I slid into the back.
“Stevie? This is our head of security, Warren Boland.”
The bulk turned and extended his hand.
“Bogs. Pleased to meet you, Stevie. I’ve seen some of your work, here and there.”
“Do we know each other?”
“No, no worries there. I just do security, nothin’ moody. Used to work for JP Docherty, but. You remember him?”
“Captain Nightlife? I don’t have to ‘remember’ him, he’s still in the papers.”
“Aye, well, did the door for a few of his places, keepin’ the fuds out rather than in, know? Nothin’ that you’d call executive.”
“So, you’re still in showbiz here then?”
“This? This is different class, a whole ‘nother story. I’m not what you’d call an excitable guy, not these days, but this…I’m kinna excited, got to say it. But anyway….Mr De Malbec, the studio now?”
“Yes please, Warren. I want Stevie to see Unmissable You. And feel how it’ll be.”
De Malbec hadn’t said where the studio was, so I had no idea how long the journey would be. Bogs turned the wheel immediately and swept the car to the right, past the front of Central Station and the late-night taxi queue gathering already, fuelled by a volatile mix of confusion and certainty. Then, right again down Union Street, all bus stops and wider lanes, brighter lights, straggling pedestrians unable to distinguish pavement from highway, and not caring either way. Through the first set of lights and into Jamaica Street, more bus stops and broken glass catching the headlamps, sparking back as the Mercedes stopped and went, picking its way through more huddles of heedless foot traffic. If ever there was a nation of militant pedestrians, Glasgow would undoubtedly be its capital city.
Over the bridge, then, crossing the dark swell of the Clyde, glinty and jet in the night, over into the south side. The south side, my Glasgow. But then again, the city is a big place and we were heading straight down Bridge Street, not turning to follow the river towards Govan. So, not quite treading in the footprints of my own personal history.
Then, turning left, we were in the Gorbals, every stranger’s shorthand for the vision of urban decay that Glasgow used to represent, a cliché welded to a trope and sutured by ignorance. If every Russian winterscape was “Siberia”, if every gangster was in the “Mafia”, if every philosopher was a beardy freak, then all of Glasgow was the Gorbals. Synecdoche, I’d call it, if I’d ever heard of the word.
But, not so. The acres of slums, the habit of violence, the corrosion of poverty: all were real, but all were partial. There was much more to the city than that – more, and sometimes less as well. And, sometimes too, that really was all there was.
Now, though, the Gorbals (real, imagined, fictitious, all of those) was a different beast to the one of legend. In the 1960s, slum clearance had razed entire streets and plugged mighty towers and slabs into the grim grids of tenements they replaced. Some of those towers had themselves been flattened and scraped from the landscape, only 20 years after they sprang like stunted flowers from the muck of the inner city’s south side. The Gorbals of the 21st century had plenty low-rise apartments now, merged into the remaining quilt of towers and slabs, and the surviving tenements, those that planners, chance and timing had spared. It wasn’t pretty, exactly, but it was less ugly than it had been. The people who lived there? Some will be the same, some will be different. That’s life.
Oddly, it seemed to me, what always remained untouched through the many phases of development, re-development and un-development was a scattering of grandiose churches, vast Victorian temples in the Greek revival style, all Doric columns and sweeping facades, on top of massive arrays of steps that would fail every accessibility code ever devised. It was towards one of these that we were heading in the darkness, a looming presence in the night, isolated next to the elevated section of a disused railway line, a viaduct surrounded by vacant acres of weeds and garbage. This particular church, I knew, was called Hutcheson’s-Tron – it’s not that I’m a cultural historian, you understand, just that the place was famous.
“Are we going to church, Justin?”
“You’ll see, but first you’re going to have to meet some people…some of the reasons why you’re on this trip.”
Bogs drove the car around the dark mass of the church to where I guessed the huge frontage would be and as we turned the corner, the street was suddenly awash with light. From a piece of scrub opposite the church, a bank of searchlights illuminated the weathered grey stone of the imposing façade, while on the building itself, several gantries of Klieg lights turned night into day across the pavement and tarmac surface of the street. It was a single block of the Gorbals turned into the Las Vegas strip, glitter gulch next to the dark railway arches. Justin de Malbec was using this Greek revival temple as a studio for his TV show.
Further down the street, towards the old train tracks, several TV location trucks stood, a festooning of cables running from them into the church. There were people, too, some of them on scaffolding, fixing a fifty-foot vinyl banner that read Unmissable You – Channel 6 Every Night on the pediment over the main entrance, some others around the steps and the high open doors of the church, footering with objects I couldn’t identify, but the people De Malbec was pointing to were across the street, unconnected to the TV studio activity.
About eight of them, they huddled together, wearing some kind of matching robes or gowns, dark and cowly, like monks. Behind them, I could see now, almost obscured in the huge wash of light across the street, was a cross, maybe twelve feet high. And it was on fire.
“Tell me, Justin, who is it that’s burning crosses in the Gorbals this fine night? And why are they all looking at your TV studio?”
“They call themselves the Church of Jesus of the Second Vision. And they’re bamsticks, obviously. You can talk to them later, in fact that’ll be one of your first jobs, but let’s get into the studio.”
The broad steps – about twenty of them – would make a great setting for a sweeping ascent into the church/studio, perfectly framing the view for the TV cameras that would be installed across the street on the now-empty high gantries that had been constructed there, ready for the live broadcasts. At the swung-open high church doors, we were met by what looked like Bogs’s stunted twin – same lowering presence, same out-of-fashion Crombie coat, same who-the-fuck-are-you? look on his face, but 20% smaller. They were Bill & Ben with criminal records.
“This is our deputy head of security, Stevie – Clinton Morris.”
“E’body calls me Cutty, but. Pleased to meet you, Mr McCabe. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Pleased to meet you an’ all, Cutty. I hope you’ve only read the good reviews.”
“I’ve got your security pass here.” And Cutty handed me a laminated badge on a blue lanyard. It had my photo on it – not that I’d given one to de Malbec – a bar code, my name and the title Head of Operations. I couldn’t suppress a smile at being given a nice head-of job in a hierarchy, without even applying for it. And a badge, only half an hour after I heard about the show for the first time. Some folk are just born lucky, I guess.
Inside the building, nothing of the church it had been remained. We left Bill & Ben to do some securing and made our way through a wide reception, technical areas, dressing rooms, production offices, front-of-camera corridors before de Malbec finally paused in front of two heavy doors on which were golden letters spelling out the show’s title.
“Here’s where the real magic happens, Stevie…” he said, opening the doors. Behind them, a short corridor with recessed lighting, a sort of airlock leading to a second set of doors. Beyond those, well, you could only call it a lair.
Thousands of square feet of leather, chrome, smoked glass, fur, sixty-inch televisions, brushed steel, Mondriaan prints, multiple couches, all with an overhead canopy of surveillance equipment, like a rainforest made of lenses.
“Here, Justin, will Goldfinger not be pissed off when he gets back and sees what you’ve done to the place?”
“Yeah, isn’t it something? This is where the eyes of the nation will be after Friday. Why’n’t you have a seat somewhere – pick a couch - while we have a talk. Whisky?”
“Don’t care for it, thanks. Don’t suppose you’ve got any beer worth drinking?”
“Just the stuff with the sponsor’s name on it – one of the sponsors, anyway.”
“Aw, no. Orange juice’ll be fine.” We reclined on a white leather sofa, de Malbec manoeuvring his fingers around his whisky glass like a crab juggling a whelk.
“I’m makin’ millionaires here, Stevie.”
“Starting with yourself.”
“Well, once the show is a hit, sure. There’s others’ll be taking a slice first…but you don’t want to know about that.”
“Actually, I do. You said you’d talk about the money.”
“Aye. Cash is king. I’m gonny make a millionaire, well, in fact, tons of them. Plus me, like you say, cuz that’s how everything goes round, right? But plenty of fuckin’ nobodies are gonny end up somebodies when they become you.”
“You’ve lost me there. You went a bit Spice Girls for a minute...they become you?”
“You! Not you, not Stevie McCabe, you, like in the show – it’s called Unmissable You. The winner ends up with the title, y’know, from the contestants, they get ten mill – biggest prize ever, right? But every night, some sad sack watchin’ the telly gets a million as well! Every night! And all they have to do is be watchin’ the show when we call their name. Every night!”
“After they pay when they call up in the first place?”
“Ah, sure – token entry fee, not the point.”
“Not a token when you’ve got millions doing it.”
“You’re not totally wrong there, Stevie, but why wouldn’t they do it? Sixty-five pence a day and they can win a million every night? That’s a helluva deal.”
“It’s not a ‘deal’ at all, Justin. It’s just a gamble. And the chances must even be worse than the lottery?”
“Let the mathematicians sort that one out. The point is, this is on TV and everybody gets to be part of the biggest thing ever. It’s about you! ‘You’, meaning them, obviously.”
“And what if they’re not actually watching the show when you call their name?”
“They’re gubbed. We go on to the next one. It’s all live. They have to watch, or lose. And they never know when we’re gonny call the names, it’s random. Except it isn’t that, obviously. We just change it around to suit ourselves. And sometimes, we’ll do it twice, early in the run, like? Because when we do it at the start of the show, all the zombies turn off...until they see in the paper the next day that we did it again! And they tell themselves that that was their chance, the one they missed, so they make bloody sure that watch every minute the next night, in case it happens again.”
“So the show is unmissable.”
“Exactly – and the winner is unmissable you. And they cop a million in their Wranglers an’ all. Just for watchin’ my wee show.”
“And some of the adverts in between?”
“Oh, Stevie…you should see the kind of numbers Channel 6 is after for those slots. Y’know, if the winner’s name hasn’t been called, the cost of the adverts goes up during the show? They’re having a fuckin’ auction for adverts, while the show’s on! They’ve never seen anything like this.”
I sat back in the white leather marshmallow “I’m happy for you, Justin. Sounds like you’ve got three sevens on this one. Back at the club, you said I could meet Emmelle?”
“You’re not sayin’ that right. It’s ML. Mary-Lynn. She’s not here at the minute – have to keep her away from the studio, cuz she’s a contestant. Would look bad if she was in here before the show even starts, eh?”
“I’m startin’ to hear something hooky even now, Justin.”
“Well, that’s not your problem. What you should do is go and talk to the monks out there, or don’t, do what you like. And then we can go and see ML. But those wallopers with the burnin’ cross are your problem right now, you need to get a handle on that. Bogs has a document called Security Strategy, have a swatch at that and buddy-up to the bams with the cross. After that, we can go and meet ML.”
“This time of night?”
“Oh, she’ll be up, don’t worry about that. We need to talk about the stalker.”
“Ahh….go on.”
“ML’s got a stalker, a wee cyber-problem for us, y’might say, but we’ll get to that later.”
“Fuck a duck, Justin, a stalker?”
But Justin was pouring himself another Laphroaig.
Chapter 4 – A Parade of Idiots
I wandered back through the Xanadu of surveillance to the main entrance, where Bogs was waiting to give me the slim document that was Unmissable You’s security strategy – perimeter maintenance, staff rotas, police liaison (nobody I knew listed there), emergency protocols, credentials policy – none of which I cared about, that was Bogs’s job. On the upside, there was some ammunition there for my wee chat with the Church of Jesus of the Second Vision.
Making sure my Head of Operations badge was out of sight, I crossed the light-ablaze street to the burning cross. In these situations, it’s always best to head straight for the leader, although who that might be wasn’t quite clear, since they’d all been to the same branch of dull brown robes ‘r’ us. I settled on addressing the biggest protestor.
“Very late to be out tonight, brother…I’m Stevie McCabe.”
“You’re with the show, with….them, aren’t you? You’re going to try to get us to stop our righteous protest. Normally, I’d say don’t waste your time, but I’m happy to waste the time of somebody like you. I curse you.”
“Whoa there, captain. You always dolin’ out the curses on a first date? That’s not nice. We’ve only just met. Tell me this, though….are you the leader of this group?”
“No, I’m not a leader, none of us are. We are all followers. We have a leader, but here’s not here, not in the physical sense that I’m sure you mean.”
“But if I had to make sure your people get a message, I can tell you and you’ll, y’know, pass it on?”
“I can communicate with my fellows, of course. Any of us can.”
“Communicate with me, then. I’ve told you my name – what would yours be?”
“Call me Brother Jai. But, you know, we don’t have to talk to you at all.”
“Okay, but after tomorrow, this block is closed to traffic and pedestrians, so what you will have to do is get your roadshow back behind the barriers. Either take it up to the corner, or somewhere else entirely. You can’t get in behind these camera platform and the spectator stands. That’ll all be ticket-only. You won’t be able to get up to the church or use this roadway.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like civil liberties.”
“It’s not. It’s crowd control. Once the talent starts arriving, the police have -”
“You mean the real police?”
“- said they’ll need to make sure everybody is safe, including you, so we need this road to be clear. We don’t need people charging about. So, if you can make that all clear to your…colleagues?”
“I’m sure they can hear everything you’re saying right now, so you can take it that your message is understood.”
“Fair enough, Brother Jai…listen, I’m not lookin’ for a debate or anything, but why are you doing this? I mean, these streets have seen a few strange things, but the burning cross and the picket line of monks, that’s a new flavour to me.”
“We’ve met many like you, you never mean well for the church -”
“- I’m not claimin’ that I do wish you well, but…as far as I know…I mean you no harm, either, and I don’t go looking for fights. So, maybe I don’t particularly care, but I do want to know.”
“Why should I bother with somebody like you?”
“Here, Jai, I’m guessin’ that your day-job isn’t in PR, but just humour me. I’d say – another safe bet here, s’pose – that you aren’t all that fussed about converting people to your point of view, but still – spread the word, keep me informed.”
“Actually, you’re very wrong about converting people. We have welcoming arms to those who wish to hear the word, but we can also tell that most people will be deaf to that word, probably even hostile. So, why waste our time?”
“Fair point – why waste your time when you could be investing it wisely, standin’ here chilling your kidneys on a damp, cold night in the Gorbals?”
“There are more comfortable locations, I’ll grant you.”
“Watch out, Jai, you half-split a smile there. If you’re not careful, we could be having a conversation in a minute. So…why are you doin’ this?”
His gaze on me was more patronising, still, than friendly, but there was a minor thaw, all the same.
“I’m sure you don’t want a lesson in faith, and that’s good, Mr McCabe, because I don’t intend to give you that. If you are truly interested, you can find out something for yourself and then we could have a dialogue. Look at our website. For now, all you need to know is across the street, in those stones. Hutcheson’s-Tron.”
“The church itself?”
“Yes. We stand for the protection and salvation of Hutcheson’s-Tron itself.”
“Why? What does this church mean to you? Or do you just like the architecture?”
“The Church of Jesus of the Second Vision was founded in that building, it is our spiritual home, it is our Bethelehem. It is a sacred place and we will not tolerate its desecration.”
“So you stand here every night, with a burning cross?”
“That is what we are doing now, correct. But as you know, the desecration has hardly begun. When the….this TV show actually starts, we will do more than stand with crosses.”
“Oh, now, that sounds kinna threatening. The kinna thing that what you called the ‘real police’ might want to listen to.”
“It’s not a threat. Our protests are peaceful and lawful. We harm no-one and yet….look at this abomination here. And you tell us we will have to move off a public street to satisfy the demands of a corrupt freakshow?”
“There’s your civil liberties thing again, right? And as for the show, you haven’t seen it. Nobody has, and I somehow doubt you’ll all be zoned out over a kebab and a case of big T watching Channel 6 on Friday.”
“What do we need to see? A parade of idiots, attention seekers, exposed on television every night? Lusting for millions. And all the fools who watch, all of them with some ticket, or a number, waiting to win a million pounds every night, for just having the talent to sit looking at this garbage. Even bigger idiots, they’ll be. Maybe they’ll have your kebabs and your Tennent’s.”
“Nice rhetoric, Brother Jai. But, I tell you this, you’ve convinced me about one thing. The guy in charge of the show told me that the whole country knew what this show was about, and you’ve just proved that. Every dot and comma – you must watch more TV than you let on.”
“What you need to understand is that we will not stop. I’ve told you why and you need to grasp how serious we are about that.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that…in some way…you are serious, but I do wonder about your timing, Jai. See, this place hasn’t been a church for years, it’s been all kinds of things…a playgroup or something, community centre, workshops…it was even a nightclub for a while.”
“So what’s your point, Mr McCabe?”
“So why now? Why do you show up with your burnin’ crosses right now? Right when the biggest TV sensation for years sets up shop right in the place you tell me is so precious to you? Maybe, and I’m just trying this one on for size here, you’re just attention junkies like the rest of them? And – good wee media scout that you are – you decided that it would get you max publicity, exposure that money can’t buy, to strut yer stuff and light up a cross in the full view of all the nation’s news media? Just sayin’.”
“Very plausible.”
“What, you’re not going to deny every word?”
“Of course, what you just said was nonsense. But, from your perspective, I can see where your cynical interpretation leads”
“Tell me any different.”
“Well, as you said, the church used to be a nightclub. And, as you also pointed out, it isn’t any more. Do you know why it isn’t? We stopped that. Just like we’ll stop this insult.”
“How? How did Church of Jesus of the Second Vision shut down a night club?”
“Civil liberties, peaceful protest, respect for the law. And more than that, a belief in the power of the almighty.”
“See, that doesn’t make any sense to me…”
Then, a different voice, a woman, from somewhere behind Brother Jai.
“It doesn’t have to make any sense to you. That’s not the point.”
“I’m guessing you’re called Sister something?”
“Sister Blessing is my name. I heard yours earlier, Mister McCabe. But I think Brother Jai has made everything very clear to you now. I don’t think there is anything more to be said between us.”
Across the street, I could hear Justin de Malbec’s voice, and the sound of a car drawing up outside Hutcheson’s-Tron – he was ready to leave. Inside my head, I thought, ‘don’t just shout across the street to me, don’t call me like your wee dog’….
“Stevie!” came his voice, in denial of my personal prayer, “We’re gonny head.” And the needle on my dignity-gauge, seldom quivering up amid the highest numbers, plummeted several unnecessary levels.
“Well, Brother…Sister, interesting to have met you. I expect we’ll have some more conversations in the future.”
“I’m sure,” said Sister Blessing, “but you should go now - we don’t want to keep you from your business….Stevie.”
Chapter 5 – Britain’s Got Gargoyles
As I expected, Bogs Boland was driving again and I was in the back with Justin, who pointed at the Second Vision, now apparently dousing their cross and preparing to leave for the night.
“Did you get anything from the weirdos?”
“Bit of grief, vague threat. And the guy who seems to be in charge isn’t, there’s a woman who sits back and then takes charge when she’s heard enough.”
“They serious?”
“Serious, how? No doubt they’re serious about their religion, although I don’t know what the fuck that is; nobody would pull the shifts they’re clockin’ up for a laugh. Are they a serious problem? No, I don’t think so. They’ll be a pain in the erchie, most likely, and bugger-lugs reckons they got the nightclub shut down that was in the church but, no, I don’t think they’re what you’d call serious. I think they’re mostly fame vampires, like everybody else. Told them as much.”
“They must’ve loved that, standin’ here night after night and you call them out as wannabes.”
“They didn’t deny it, not really. I guess if you’re a cult you need to build the brand, like any business.”
“Hey, now who’s soundin’ cynical, Stevie? Everybody wants to be somebody, eh? Like the bunch of warmers we’ve got startin’ to entertain the nation on Friday. They just think it’s all steppin’ stones, just steppin’ stones to somethin’ much bigger. Like, remember Peggy Moncrieff?”
“Her off that TV show? The singer from…Kilmarnock or someplace?”
“Exactly – talent show, my arse! She comes on there, gives it plenty wi’ some Celine Dion song, and the truth is, she’s nothin’ but a wedding singer – nothin’ wrong with weddin’ singers, by the way, my own mother entertained a fair few folk round the co-operative halls in her day – but Peggy Moncrieff got their attention cuz she looked like a troll, y’with me? That kinky hair and the moustache. See, people don’t expect a troll to be able to sing a note.”
“What do they expect?”
“Eh, dunno…a screech or somethin’. Who cares? Doesny matter. So there Peggy was, competent and all that, but the punters lapped it up just cuz she was pure hacket.”
“Is this your speech to get me ready for ML? I’m thinkin’ the next thing you say is not gonny be that your Mary-Lynn is hacket.”
“Ah, ye’re on to me, Stevie. Point is to get their attention. Lookin’ like a gargoyle is only one way to do that. There’s plenty other ways. Lookin’ gorgeous, on its own, is pointless - the rest of them all look great, too, you don’t stand out, see? So, okay, Mary-Lynn is a doll, sure, but she’s got a story that’ll get them windin’ their necks out. That’s how she’s gonny make her name, that’s how she gets out of the wee pond that’s Scotland and makes her fuckin’ fortune, world-wide, live and interactive, check it out!”
“There’s only me here, Justin. You don’t need to pitch this to the back of the hall.”
“Aye, force a’ habit. This business, ye can never speak too loud and never say it too often.”
“So what’s the secret that will make Mary-Lynn stand out?”
“Me.”
“Sorry, Justin. You need better props than that. Don’t forget, I’ve met ye.”
“Well, Stevie boy, you are a cheeky cunt.”
“Aye, but tell me another story, Justin, this one’s gettin’ old.”
“Too late for stories, we’re here. ML is waitin’. Let’s do the show right here.”
We had only travelled half a mile or so, back towards the city centre and down the riverfront to where a steel and glass block winked at us in the mellow midnight. Still, though, we remained on the southside, we hadn’t crossed the dark swell of the river.
“ML lives here?”
“Aye, no’ bad, eh? ‘Course, it’s a flat the sponsor owns, Jingchai, like?”
“Hold that result, Justin. What’s Jingchai? Nobody told me we were getting’ Shanghai’d tonight.”
“Oh, some problem, detective? Are you tellin’ me your Chinese isn’t up to snuff? They’re just the main backers, what do you care? Listen…if you’re on board for this, I need you to commit. Sorry about that verb, y’know, a bit California on your ass, there.”
“I hear you, Justin. I’m on board, don’t doubt it, because, you know what?….your wee circus has caught my attention. Whatever weird shite comes down the highway, I’ll be happy to make its acquaintance. And another thing, mate? Goin’ all mid-Atlantic does not suit you. It really doesn’t, so lighten up on goin’ anywhere on anybody’s ass. Fair?”
“I catch your drift, copper…sorry, there I go again. I guess I’ve gotten all mellow behind this Laphroaig. I’m just so pumped about this show.”
“I can see that, but I reckon you’re probably always sure how great your idea is. Or how great you are.”
“Fuck, Stevie, you’re a pure cheeky bastard, you know? You ever heard about biting the hand that feeds ye? But….you know what? I like you.”
“Aye. That’s what I depend on. Tell you what, now, it’s the middle of the night and we’re still sittin’ here in this motor. I’m no closer to meeting the new queen of the nation than I was while I was listening to Brother Jai get righteous about architecture.”
“Good point. Let’s meet ML.”
We left Bogs minding the Merc while we exited and breathed in the night air off the Clyde. The apartment complex where the mystical ML seemed to reign faced the river and reflected its dark swelling lustre, darting light against glass, shimmering eddies rippling off steel.
Justin, redundantly, pointed his finger towards the dim-lit and discreet lobby that ebbed yellow, inviting us to the land of ML. He didn’t seem to notice, as he bore unsteadily towards the door, the army-coated jakey who lay, beard akimbo, on the riverside “amenity bench” next to the Merc. Jackie, as I named him in my head, snuffled and snored, growling in some dark midnight of the heart, despite being absent any clear and present agent of oblivion. No matter, Jackie had made and kept his appointment with desperation in some way this dark night and he was now in some other plane.
Me, I was following the whisky-filled Justin de Malbec into an air-conditioned executive apartment block and wondering how any stray schemie could approach within a hundred miles of Justin’s hype of ML.
That was before I saw Mary-Lynn.
Chapter 6 – Somewhere You’d Want To Be
The lift doors shushed open into a short lobby of potted palms and recessed lighting and Justin – full of it though he was – managed to draw a key from his pocket and open the door of apartment 12. Whether or not I had lost my orientation in the lobby and the elevator, it didn’t matter, I knew anyway that ML’s abode would face directly out onto the winking waters of the river Clyde.
What I didn’t know – couldn’t guess – was that the most striking woman I had ever met was gazing out over the river to the city centre’s pulsing heart, waiting for us to come in, waiting for the exact moment to turn towards me. That’s right – we came in, but she was only turning towards me.
There’s ML’s talent, right there. I felt she was only looking at me.
And, fuck me gently, she was the whole package. Beautiful, yes, but Justin had rightly said that beauty is more ten-a-buck than it is skin-deep. There was something much more affecting about her. Or was there?
She couldn’t have prepped it better. Foot propped on a low rail, blearily staring across the river to the delights and debaucheries of downtown, she was dressed, not in any ingénue frock or frisky burlesque, but in pedal pushers (that would never push a single pedal) and a huge white woolly jumper that covered her from waist to neck. Above that neck, though…powder-pale skin and burgundy lips supported a blonde wave curl and pin that echoed – no, shouted! – Marilyn Monroe and howled 1956, even to those of us who had never been there. In her hand, the perfect triangle of a cocktail glass, wooden stick and swollen cherry bobbing in the liquid.
Sure (1), I knew that she’d had all night to get the clothes and the hair arcing across the room, because she knew we were coming. Sure (2), she was watching us leave the car and had plenty time to pick up the cocktail and strike the pose. Still and all, it was a show.
She’d sold me, and I wasn’t even buying.
Her voice was soft Glasgow, slightly husky, more than slightly breathy and it sounded like somewhere you’d want to be. “Hi, I’m Mary-Lynn.”
“I never doubted that for a second. I’m Stevie.”
Behind me, de Malbec was crowing. “See, Stevie? See? It’s instant, isn’t it? Get your arse into that couch and we’ll talk.”
The apartment, all open-plan Scandinavian wood and Italian appliances, recessed lighting, floor-to-ceiling glass and river views, was like a more restrained version of the studio we’d just left. Mary-Lynn looked great in the flat, she’d seduce for Scotland on the screen.
“What do you do in real life, Mary-Lynn?”
“Pfft, Stevie. I thought you’d do better than that for a first line. And, anyway, how much more real could this be? It’s real life and it’s in the present tense. And you might as well go with ML, s’up to you.”
“Okay, ML, or can I call you M for short? Justin here has been telling me how you’re gonny be such a big star you’ll have your own gravity, so it’s crossed my mind how come nobody’s heard of you until now. Unless it’s because you’ve got no actual talent?”
“Ooh, zinger! But to answer your question, I’m…was…a student. Psychology student, how’d’ye like that? I was pretty good at that…good enough to understand why ye’re getting all snarky and aggressive at me, Stevie. A lot of men get like that, it’s kinna one thing or the other.”
De Malbec laughed out loud – “Ya dancer! She got you in one, Stevie. But, listen, I want you two to play nice. We’ve got a business to run here.”
“Fair enough, Justin. I’m not forgettin’ that you’ve got a billion dollar show to fiddle.”
“What, Stevie, does it bother you that Justin’s got me sittin’ here in this penthouse instead of some squat?”
“Bother me? No. Somebody said that people who read tabloids deserve to be lied to…I’d reckon pretty much the same applies to this. But somebody, somewhere is bound to get their drawers in a fankle if they find out that the contest of the century is no contest at all. Unless all the other wannabes are in the next block of flats here? No? Well then. I don’t give a fuck about how bent the show is, but Justin’s given me a badge and a title and everything, so I guess there’s some reason for me to be here.”
“OK. As well as being the executive producer of the show, Justin is my personal manager, but obviously that’s…y’know…”
“I do know.”
“And he’s worried about this stalker.”
“Aye, what is that? In what way, stalker? D’you know who he is? If it even is a he.”
“No, I dunno. It’s some guy, a video on YouTube. Ye want to show him, Justin?”
De Malbec turned round the laptop that was on the coffee table and hit “enter”. The usual YouTube screen was already up, featuring a blurry video, dark and indistinct, showing only a table and bed, items of no interest on the table top, and a figure lost in shadow somewhere further back into the darkness. He/it was moving loosely back and forth as a generic rap rhythm soundtracked the moment.
He began rapping – yes, it was a man – in a voice that was attempted LA out of Linthouse, or Limehouse...it was impossible to tell. I don’t like rap music, but I do recognise an atrocity when I see one. Neither ML nor Justin was laughing, though.
“Hey Mary-Lynn, whatchoo doin’ girl? I gotta hot nine fa yew, know I’mma sayin’? You gonna be all that, up on ya TV, butya man, he gonna be me! He gonna BE me!” The rap track stopped and the voice continued, merely speaking now but still in same bastard accent.
“Aw’igh’, girl. You and me, Channel 6. That’s a date!” and his hand edged into the light, made a gun shape and “fired” it at the camera.
“How did you know about this video? It’s only had 15 views and it’s stuck in some arse-end of YouTube, title doesn’t say anything about Unmissable You or ML, no way you’d find that on a search, so how come you turned it up?”
“We weren’t lookin’ for it. A researcher on the show got a phone call, just on the general number, like? Said there’s some great fan action on YouTube, gives us the URL…and that’s what was there. She told Justin and Justin told me. Whoever made that video phoned it in as well.”
“You trust the researcher? Who was she? Or he?”
“What? You think she….? She’s worked for Channel 6 for years, well, not for the channel but for the production back-up company. Sally. You can talk to her, but she’s not makin’ the phone call up.”
“Okay, so you checked your 1471? Yes? And the number was, let’s see, a pay-phone? Okay, and you called the police, naturally?”
De Malbec sat upright on the couch. “That’s a kinna funny tone on you there, Stevie. What’s your point? ‘course we called the police, we’re takin’ this seriously.”
“Here’s my point, Justin – anybody that’s a wee bit inclined to the cynical would look at this video…would look at you....and see a crackin’ piece of hype for the show. Hey, everybody, you know that show you’re all talking about? Well, guess what? There’s some mad fuckin’ stalker an’ all – look at this on the internet…..”
“Aw, no sale, cowboy. This is gen-up. Honest to Christ, it’s no’ a stunt. Listen, if it was a scam, we’d be punting it, not keepin’ it quiet, right? If we thought it was good PR, all the papers would have it, but they don’t, not a whisper.”
Mary-Lynn leant forward to make a point – “Justin’s right, Stevie. I mean, this video’s about me, my name’s in it, right? And I know nothing about it, nothing. If it was anythin’ to do with the show, I’d know. Justin’d tell me.”
“Come on, ML. Justin would only tell you anything, or not tell you anything, if it suited him, and you know it fine well. So leave your wee who-me act in the tank. As it happens, I believe him. Fifteen views, that’s a state secret on YouTube. Nobody’s watched it, foreby you, us….and probably the freak himsel’, I’m sure he’s his own biggest fan. So, I believe you – you’re not makin’ a show of this. Who was it you reported this to at the polis?”
“We’ve got his name somewhere, young guy at Calder Street. Just a rank and filer. Would you know him?”
“Not likely, not down there. I only know one senior guy. What did they say, the polis?”
“Told us to go and raffle ourselves. Nicely, y’know?”
“Seems fair. There’s no crime or even anti-social behaviour on there, just some guy bein’ a fanny on the internet. Half the planet do that.”
“But my name’s on there, he’s been… I dunno, checking up on me or something. He’s sayin’ things about me.”
“Right, and this is after Justin here carpet-bombs the country with blah about the show and – I’m guessin’ here – everybody that’s in it, with maybe a special wee emphasis on a home-town blonde….and then you get worried when somebody notices your name?”
“He freaked me out.”
“Well, this is the zoo you’re in here now, there’s gonny be plenty weird on the menu.”
“Do you think he’s serious? I mean, from that video, what he said and that?”
“Hey, you’re the psychologist, not me. Best guess, I don’t think he’s a…threat. But yeah, he seems fixated and what he’s done there is weird as fuck, no danger. Unless there’s some reason to think it’s somebody you know, I’d let this one ride. Nothing he said showed he’s got any kind of insider knowledge, unless you tell me different. He had your name, but that’ll be in the papers and everywhere else, so he’s not workin’ very hard and he’s not trying to get close to you. If you really want to know what I think, he’s probably only got one thing in his mind…”