Cinnamon Twigs

DARREN FREEBURY-JONES

Cinnamon Twigs

The life and pseudocide of a celebrity

Copyright © Darren Freebury-Jones, 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright, no part of this document may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), or for any purpose, without the express written permission of the copyright owner of the book

Cover
Photography: Copyright © Nicola Pearce

Cover Design: Copyright © Johannes Laubmeier

F
or the memory-makers.

“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what’s a heaven for?”

ROBERT BROWNING

“For every man alone thinks he hath got

To be a phoenix”

JOHN DONNE

PROLOGUE

The rain drummed incessantly on the windowpanes that night. I was sitting in my bed, reading alone and remembering when I’d been a writer. My eyelids were bound by heavy sleep. Too tired to reflect on Dorian Gray’s plight, I folded the corner of the page and placed the book next to my bed, beside the oil lamp. I’d been reading a lot during those latter days.

             
I closed my eyes and let darkness engulf me, trapped myself in the limbo between sleep and wake, dreams and reality. I eventually dragged myself from that darkness, pushed the blanket away and wiped my damp brow. The rain still drummed on the windowpanes. Harder now. Even more relentless. I sat up and brooded in silence, steeped in memories, letting the sound of the rain filter through my thoughts. A heavy storm made its way to my window - as fitting as any use of pathetic fallacy in my novels.             

             
I swore and peered through the glass. The wind blew hard and the storm’s cheeks cracked, bringing a mysterious chiaroscuro to the landscape. The rumblings and peals of thunder grew louder.

             
I gave up on trying to go back to sleep and gazed at the contorted shadows creeping across the flashing walls. I remained motionless for a moment. Until an unexpected presence entered the room. My heart beat hard against its cage as I closed my eyes, hoping the feeling of dread would pass. But it wouldn’t.

             
When I reopened my eyes, a flash of lightning revealed a figure standing beside me, within touching distance. I strained to see the figure clearly: a woman with blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes that sparkled despite the darkness. I couldn’t make out what she was wearing. I was drawn to her familiar face as she smiled at me.

             
‘W-what?’ I stammered.

             
Another flash of lightning tripped across the room. In that instant, she became distinct, raising her finger to her lips in a childish manner, telling me to hush.

             
I leapt out of the bed and called her name.

             
She’d gone, sunk into the darkness. Into nothingness.             

             
What was she doing here?
I thought to myself.

             
I made my mind up at that moment.

             
I believe I’ve told my story truthfully in this book. I’ve been completely honest about how my experiences have shaped me as a person.

             
I’d tried to escape my previous life, the superficiality of the tabloid press. So I chose to deny the world the satisfaction of a narrative ending. But it had been wrong to give up so much. I’d neglected my memories. That night, I began to learn the most important lesson of my life, acknowledged my transgressions. New memories were waiting for me. And those memories were at home.

CHAPTER ONE

Childhood Games

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t expect to be famous. Fame was all I ever wanted. All kids, at some point in their childhoods,
say they will be rich and successful. And then they grow up into cynical adults and face so-called reality. I wanted to make the most of my life, and saw fame as the only real way to achieve that. Celebrity is the religion of our time, and I’d always felt sure and certain hope that the name Daniel Mace would be universally known one day.

             
I’ve made mistakes, but I can’t afford to have regrets. I wanted to be remembered for my accomplishments; that was more important than anything else. I’ve struggled with the knowledge that even when you’re at the top of the ladder you can still fall down, forgotten. Some days, having a kid run up to you and ask for an autograph is the most heartwarming act there is. Other days, when you want some alone time, having the paparazzi all over you is about as pleasant as a burning rash on your genitals. You have to accept that many members of the public believe that because they pay to see your movies, or buy your books, they have a right to peer into your private affairs. But I know I’ve had a very rewarding career, even if it has conflicted with other aspects of my life.

             
According to my mother, I was born at a bloody inconvenient hour, on a cold November morning. I grew up in an urban area known as Canton, near central Cardiff, in Wales. My father had walked out on us not long after I came into the world. He just packed his bags and told my mother not to look for him. I resented him throughout my childhood, without knowing his reasons for leaving. But I still cherished the only link I had to my dad: a fat brown teddy bear with one eye he’d bought for me.

As a nipper, I cuddled the bear, and kept it on a shelf in my bedroom as a teenager.
My mother never got over my dad’s departure, and it definitely contributed to her bouts of depression. It didn’t help that she had to care for the toddler from hell either. I was, as unfortunate parents say, ‘clingy’. I cried for her when she first dropped me off at nursery. But after some encouragement from other kids, I stopped being shy. It wasn’t long until I was running around, pretending to be a jabberwocky or some other kind of monster. And it wasn’t long until someone suggested I might have to go to a ‘special school.’ The nursery assigned a personal carer to me, who retired after a few weeks without handing in her notice. My mother often wondered if I had the number 666 imprinted on my body somewhere, but she didn’t help matters by letting me watch horror films. Those viewings were meant to be punishments for my misbehavior, a way of scaring me into being good. But I must have been the only child in the world who cried when Freddy Krueger died - as he frequently did, only to return for yet another sequel.

             
As I grew older, my games became more diverse. I didn’t pretend to be a monster anymore. In my garden, I’d shoot imaginary aliens and robots, playing varied roles such as dashing space heroes, evil villains or secret agents, like the ones I’d seen on the telly. I relied on my imagination, because most kids didn’t want to hang out with me.

             
The time soon came for me to lace up my little black shoes and attend St Mary’s Catholic Primary School, in Canton. As I wandered through the school corridors on my first day, noticing a sacred heart in every corner, anxiety and curiosity mingled into one juvenile emotion. The main hall resembled a church as light streamed through its colored glass windows, painting the dusty floor with a kaleidoscopic sea. A proscenium stage protruded from the left side of the hall. I was told off during one of my first days in school for running around on it. The dilapidated props and lighting equipment, used only for the annual Christmas plays, really appealed to me. The stage presented another world, a place for actors to roam free among artificial lights and drapery. I also loved the playground, a great desert of concrete where I could doodle images from my imagination across the crayoned sky. I spent most of my first year playing by myself, pretending to be an ego ideal character: someone everyone wanted to be.

             
I eventually made friends in my reading class, an extra class for children deemed to be extra crap at reading and writing. There must have been cause for concern when one nasty child I’d asked to play a game with me chanted ‘N-O spells no!’ and I asked him, ‘Does it?’

             
Mrs Parker, a kind old lady who could illuminate the classroom walls with her wrinkled smile, taught me to read. It took me a long time to get to grips with reading and writing in her lessons, because I didn’t show any initial interest. But I gradually learned how to read a book with fluency.

             
‘How are you reading like this?’ Mrs Parker croaked, amazed by the sudden change in me.

             
‘I dunno. The words are just coming out!’ I smiled, averting my eyes away from her mustache.

             
She put that one in her diary.

             
After that, I never looked back when it came to reading and writing. I wrote stories in class, impressing teachers with my imagination. The first novel I ever read was Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
, which gripped me despite my age. Maybe it was because I watched
Carry On Screaming
a lot, but I was obsessed with the idea of bringing the dead back to life. And I really wanted to make my own monster. I could imagine myself training up an overgrown, hideous oaf with bolts in his neck, showing him off to other kids and getting him to scare my mother whenever she had a go at me.

             
The school headmaster, Mr Evans, had a habit of chuckling a lot and saying words like ‘marvelous’ and ‘excellent’ all the time. ‘Manners cost nothing but are worth a fortune,’ he often repeated. I’ll never forget that saying, and I don’t think any other St Mary’s student will either. He added theatricality to the routine Gospel readings during assemblies. His dramatic accentuations still ring in my ears - ‘
Lazarus
, come forth.’ Whenever Mr Evans walked into a class, he addressed a student while looking at someone seated at the other side of the room. His trick was to look at the windows so he could see the children’s reflections. Bad times for the boy who raised his middle finger up behind Mr Evans’s back!

             
I stayed on Mr Evans’s good side and gradually became popular with my fellow pupils. I aroused interest in my games and had everybody adopting roles in my playground versions of
Doctor Who
. Most of the children in my year ended up being pursued by Daleks, Cybermen and a whole plethora of alien enemies. My obsession with the television series led me to create a TARDIS in my garden, made of cardboard and bubble wrap. The rain came down and soaked my imitation the day after I completed it, so my dreams of time travel crumbled.

             
I liked to play in my neighborhood when I wasn’t at school. My street was located between two railway tracks that ran northbound to Radyr and southbound to Cardiff City Center, so it could get noisy, but you got used to it. A small area filled with gorse and common ragwort stretched across the road. The council had fenced this section off, but if you were brave you’d climb over the barrier and play among the thorns, which always led to a good pricking. An enigmatic warehouse stood at the very end of the street, which morphed into a gothic castle, casting a gloomy shadow on the twisting cobbled road and grey rooftops.

             
I had great fun playing outside and riding my mountain bike, called Elvis, every day. I made friends with a couple of kids on the block named Elliott and Lisa. Elliott stood slightly shorter than me, had piercingly green eyes, which always retained an ironic sparkle, and neat sandy blond hair. We made miniature horror films together, using my old camcorder. On a budget of nothing we used tomato sauce to look like blood and wet tissue for guts. We invited other kids from the neighborhood to private screenings at my house. I’d learned many lessons when it came to filming and had read up on my film terms. I constantly warned Elliott about the problems posed by bleaching and vignetting. With such knowledge at that age, I believed I’d be good enough to direct a real production in the distant future.

             
Elliott and I bought fake blood one messy evening and managed to get it all over the carpet, resulting in a thrashing from my mother.

             
‘It was your fault,’ I moaned to Elliott afterwards.

             
‘We should have stuck with ketchup. It’s less messy and it tastes better,’ he said.

             
‘Hmm, where would be the fun in that though?’

             
We had a laugh together, even though I often forced him into the role of murder victim. Elliott also liked to write stories. We’d compare our works, but always ended up criticizing each other. We competed over anything and everything, such as who had the best clothes, who could run the fastest, who could ride their bike quicker and who could win on computer games.