High society (36 page)

POP GOES THE WEEKEND, BBC TV CENTRE

C
athy Paget was the star guest on Pop Goes the Weekend, the BBC’s flagship Saturday-morning pop show. Chloe was the show’s new presenter, having been recently promoted from a similar show on cable. After she had been seen in the Met Bar with Tommy Hanson and front paged exiting from his Netting Hill home the following morning, the BBC Children’s Department saw her as an obvious choice.

Cathy Paget was appearing in the phone-in part of the show, a section called ‘Press Gang’, in which the young audience was invited to interrogate a celebrity.

‘OK, let’s go to the phones again,’ said Chloe in an excited manner, fuelled not exclusively by strong coffee. ‘We have Tawny from Bradford.’

‘Hullo, Chloe, I’d like to ask Cathy is she worried that her father’s bill will make more kids take drugs?’

‘Top question, Tawns, mental. Go, Cath.’

Cathy smiled prettily, looking as if she had been on television all her life. She was six years younger than Chloe, but she made the professional presenter look like an over-excited fraud. Cathy Paget was no fraud, she was genuinely warm, sexy, authoritative and utterly convincing. A true natural in everything she did.

‘Well, I suppose it’s possible, Tawny, but alcohol is legal and also highly addictive, and not everyone who drinks it is an alcoholic, are they? I suppose the point is that even if, say, twice as many kids became drug-takers as currently take them, and I doubt that would happen, then better for it to be out in the open and properly regulated and protected than run by gangsters.’

‘Top answer, Cath, mental,’ Chloe assured her. ‘Let’s go to Billy from Fife.’

‘I want to ask Cathy what her dad will do with the half-million pounds he got because the papers lied about him.’

‘As I think most people know, he’s giving it to charity, to drug rehabilitation charities, in fact, but let me tell you this. Me and my sister Suzie have told him he’s got to keep ten grand of it for a cracking, top-notch, totally humungous holiday! Well, why not? Four hundred and ninety thou to charity and a nice ten K for us to have a laugh together as a family. Because you know what, Billy? These last months have been quite stressful for us, what with Dad’s campaign and then him getting that needle jab, plus all these media smears. I reckon we’ve earnt a holiday courtesy of the press!’

The whole studio cheered. Even the camera crews and harassed floor managers joined in. Without even trying, Cathy had got it just right again. Charity, yes, but let’s not be boring about it, eh? She was a breath of fresh air.

‘Top question, top answer, Cath babes,’ Chloe gushed. This was a girl with nervous energy to spare. What was more, her energy seemed to increase every time she found a moment to pop to the ladies.

‘Now, Cathy, as you know, we get loads and loads of emails, and we’ve never had a bigger response than you’ve got. It’s true, babes, and how good is that? And the big question everybody wants to know the answer to is: Why aren’t you Prime Minister?!’

The entire studio erupted once more into cheering.

‘Well, Chloe,’ Cathy said, once the noise had died down. ‘I definitely want to go into politics like my dad, and like him I want to do it because I believe in things. I know that a lot of things need changing and if you want to make a difference it’s no good sitting around on your bum complaining about them. You have to get involved and do your bit. So I’ll definitely have a go at getting into politics, after uni, of course, because it’s really important to get an education before anything else. And then? Well, we’ll see what happens. I’m only sixteen, so who knows? You have to dream, don’t you?’

‘Big up to that, babes. Big up to that.’

FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

S
o after I done Parky, I come up here, which is why I’m attendin’ a self-help group in Fallowfield, Lancashire. An’ why am I doin’ that, you may well ask? Well, the self-help thing is because this time I really am going to stay clean. I owe that to Jessie. I’m goin’ to go to all me NA and AA meetings an’ get through all me points an’ get to the fookin’ serenity bit if it kills me. It’s no good searchin’ for a bird to save if you’re pissed up an’ totally monged, is it? You’ll never find ‘er that way, will you? And as for me being’ here in Fallowfield, well, as it ‘appens, right now, personally, I prefer it to London’s glamorous fookin’ West End anyway, an’ also I’m ‘avin’ a week up here lookin’ for Jessie. Got a lead, see. I get leads all the time, ever since Parky. People keep ringin’ me up sayin’ they saw a skinny bird wi’ big eyes an’ nice tits beggin’ here or solicitin’ there. There’s plenty of girls like Jessie in the world, believe me, an’ young lads in trouble too, an’ that’s something else I’m going to do. I’m goin’ to set up fookin’ centres to help all them young people. Cool places wi’ decent cheap food and guitars and computers or whatever, an’ get this, I in’t even going to put me name on ‘em. How surprising is that? Tommy Hanson, the ego what landed, not puttin’ his name on something. I’m goin’ to do it through the Prince’s Trust. I’ve already had a meetin’. I know everybody’s laughing at me, drug-fooked Tommy falls for a bird he’s known for a day then fookin’ makes a twat of himself on telly over her an’ suddenly he reckons he’s Mother T’ fookin’—resa, but I don’t give a fook, me. I’m going to make summat o’ what I’ve got. I’m goin’ to ‘elp other people and what’s more I’m goin’ to find Jessie. I’m going to look in every doorway and dosshouse, every knockin’ shop, every drop-in centre, every fookin’ morgue if I have to. But I will fookin’ find her!’

Tommy’s mobile rang. It was not strictly speaking good etiquette to have one’s mobile switched on in such a meeting, but Tommy didn’t care. He was determined never to be incommunicado again. At least until he found her. Then perhaps he’d turn off all the phones…if she wanted him to.

A motorway service station, M6

The phonecall had been from Tommy’s tour manager. He had news. Nina, the madam from Goldie’s brothel, had called Tommy’s management office telling them that she knew where the girl was. The office had immediately put her on to Tony, who did all of Tommy’s fixing, and he had arranged a meeting according to the woman’s instructions.

It was lunchtime in a busy service station. Tony had been there since eleven holding the specific table Nina had asked for against all corners. Using a second driver, Tommy had joined him at twelve twenty-five, heavily disguised, of course.

‘Funny how I always used to love service stations when we were on the road,’ Tommy remarked. ‘It were a good laugh then, weren’t it?’

‘Can’t say they ever did a lot for me, Tom,’ Tony said wearily. ‘But it were your tour. You were in charge.’

At twelve thirty on the dot a woman approached them, heavily made up with absurdly pouting collagen lips, and a look of permanent surprise imparted by one eye tuck too many. The woman put her coffee on the table and sat down. She did not introduce herself. ‘As I told you on the phone, I know where the girl is.’ She slid a photograph across the table. It was a Polaroid shot of Jessie, who was holding a copy of that morning’s newspaper.

‘I can bring her to you,’ the woman continued, ‘but it’s dangerous. The people who’ve keeping her are very violent. I want a million euros, half now, half later.’

‘Yeah, we know, you already told us,’ Tommy said. Tone, give it her.’

Tony was very unhappy. ‘Tom, this is blackmail. Blackmail plus slavery. We should take this woman straight to the police.’

Nina pushed her coffee cup away from her and got up. ‘If you do that you’ll never see Jessie again. Don’t forget, her owner is part of an international operation. He could send her overseas any day now. We move our girls about all the time. Punters like a bit of something new.’

Tommy stared into his tea, trying to master his emotions. His every waking moment was plagued with thoughts of what was happening to Jessie. His dreams were worse. ‘Pay her the money, Tony.’

‘And what’s to stop this woman just going off overseas herself?’

Nina had the answer to that. The other five hundred grand, of course. You think I’m going to walk away from that? Now listen to me, you do not have any time to lose, all right? Like I say, these people are very dangerous, and Jessie is no more than a sack of flour or a side of beef to them. A commodity. Who knows what plans they have for her? By next week she could be in Holland being forced to suck donkeys’ dicks for underground videos. Or worse. I’ve seen rape films, even snuff ones.’

‘Give her the money, Tony.’

Tony put a small steel flight case onto the table.

The woman took the bag and got up. ‘You have the instructions for the exchange,’ she said, her big, pointy, puffed-up mouth making her look like some sort of fish. ‘You’ll have the girl back tomorrow.’

SAMANTHA’S FLAT, ISLINGTON

I
t was eleven o’clock in the morning on the eleventh day of the month. Samantha read her poem aloud to herself. Eleven lines of predictable rhymes in which she spoke of her shame in ever imagining that anyone could ever take the place of her father. This fundamental mistake was, Samantha felt, what had brought all the troubles down upon her head. The public shaming of her, her mother, her friends. The media had created an image of her as some sort of man-eating monster who spun webs of lies around innocent, noble figures, destroying their careers while frolicking naked about the place at pretty much any opportunity.

It was all so unfair. Samantha had never imagined the press could be so cruel and misleading. If ever there was a girl whose breasts were less likely to appear in the newspapers it was Samantha, and yet now the entire country was almost sick of the sight of them, if Britain’s newspaper readers could ever be said to be sick of naked breasts.

‘Sorry, Daddy,’ she said as she put the poem into a saucepan and set it alight. There was only ever one decent man in this world, I know that now,’ she said to the picture of her father that she conjured up out of the flames and smoke.

Then Samantha counted out the sleeping pills into lines of eleven. There were thirty-five in all, so she discarded two of them, and at eleven minutes past eleven she began methodically to eat the first line.

She did it very, very slowly, because in truth she did not actually want to die. For this reason she decided that it would be fitting for her to eat one pill every eleven minutes, and so she had fallen asleep long before completing the first line. When she awoke she felt sick but in a way rather better. She had tried, honorably, to kill herself, and she had failed. Her father clearly did not want her to die. What he wanted was for her to fight back. What he wanted was closure.

A BROTHEL, BIRMINGHAM

N
ina had thought long and hard about how best to spirit Jessie from Goldie’s establishment. She had agonized over whether it would be best to try to get her out of the front door while the girl sat awaiting a new client or to wait until the morning lull when the girls slept and try to sneak her down the stairs while the establishment was at comparative rest. Eventually she decided on the latter and had crept up to the girls’ dormitory, almost identical to the one from which Jessie had escaped only a few weeks before.

‘Jessie…Jessie^ she hissed, shaking the girl from her drug induced slumber. ‘Come with me. I’m going to get you out of here.’

At first Jessie refused to move. She did not understand what was going on and the heroin in her system had made her lethargic. Eventually Nina got Jessie partially to her senses and together they crept down the stairs, past the rooms in which the girls performed their labours and into the viewing foyer. Here there would normally be a couple of Goldie’s men lounging about the place, but it was a Monday morning, the slowest time of the week, and Nina reckoned that they would be downstairs in the kitchen going about their usual activities, making coffee or freebasing crack to sell. The room was empty and Nina led Jessie towards the front door.

It was locked.

This was a considerable shock to Nina, who held the keys and had checked that it was open only a few minutes before. The mystery was soon solved when the terrifying face of Goldie appeared from behind one of the couches.

‘Peek-a-boo. I see you,’ he said, grinning through his gold teeth.

‘Hello, Goldie,’ Nina stuttered. ‘I was just — ’

‘You were just what, babes?’

‘A client. We had a call…He wanted Jessie. I thought I heard him at the door.’

Goldie went to the door and looked through the little hatch. ‘Nobody out there, Nina.’

Nina had no answer.

‘You were stealing my property, weren’t you, Nina? That’s what you was doing. You gotta understand that a man does not survive long in my line of business without being naturally suspicious, see? So when my madam says to me she needs a morning off an’ a car to borrow on a specific date, I’m suspicious.’

Two of Goldie’s men joined them from the next room. ‘So I had Bernie and Jah here follow you just to see what was up an’ lo an’ behold you has some sort of meeting in a service station, of all things! Hardly the sort of place a glamorous girl like you would choose to spend her morning off. Give us your keys, will you, darling? You won’t be needing your set any more.’

Nina handed them over and Goldie walked around her and Jessie and slipped the bolts back on the front door. ‘We never close, eh? Although someone else is going to have to greet the clients till I can get a new door bitch.’

‘Please, Goldie,’ Nina spluttered.

Goldie was enjoying his little moment of drama. He sat down at a table and produced a big bag of rocks of crack cocaine. He felt that he had earned a celebration and began to prepare a pipe. ‘And what do Bernie and Jah see happen at this weird little Road Chef rendezvous? Why, only a fuckin’ bag drop. Only a fuckin’ dump!’

Jah now produced the flight case that Tony had given to Nina.

‘Broke into your flat this morning, Nina,’ Jah said. ‘Hidden in a kitchen binliner. Not bad, too big for the cistern, after all.’

‘Got fucking scrambled egg and yoghurt on me strides,’ Bernie interjected.

‘Now what we need to know, Nina, is who the fuck is paying you half a million fucking euros for this little slagbag, who is quite frankly three parts shagged out already.’

Jessie was not listening to the conversation. Her consciousness was drifting about the place on a drug-fuelled cloud. However, one firm thought was beginning to coalesce in her head, pushed to the surface on crystals of amphetamine.

The thought was that Goldie had unlocked the door.

‘You see, I just presumed,’ Goldie was saying, putting his arm around Nina’s shoulder, ‘that you was trying to get into my trade, flogging birds to other cunts like me, so frankly I was just going to kill you straight off. But then when we found all this money I started to wonder. Now I got to tell you that little Jessie here is cute, I’ll give you that, and she’s still got a bit of youth and strength about her, useful bit of goods, no doubt. I’d pay three, maybe five thousand for her…The Albanians might give you five hundred and a herd of fucking sheep. But half a million euros, three hundred and fifty thousand quid? Like I say, Nina, who the fuck wants Jessie that much?’

Til tell you if you promise to split the — ’

Nina’s suggestion ended in a dull, agonized exhalation of air as Goldie buried his fist in her stomach.

‘You’ll tell me anyway, darling…Pick her up.’

Bernie and Jah picked up the groaning woman and slammed her against the wall, holding her there while Goldie shoved his face into hers.

‘So, let’s have the question again, shall we?’

Jessie still wasn’t listening; she was trying to focus. Focus on a series of observations. Beyond the table Goldie and his men were busy with Nina. On the table was Goldie’s bag of rocks of crack and the set of keys that he had taken from Nina. Jessie was standing near the table, and behind her was the front door.

And nobody was looking at her.

Goldie, Bernie and Jah were staring at Nina and Nina, a hand choking her neck, was pleading with Goldie.

Jessie slipped off her stiletto-heeled shoes and took two silent steps towards the table. Still she went unnoticed. Now she reached forward and gathered up the bag of drugs and the keys, terrified that the keys would tinkle as she lifted them.

Nina was choking loudly as Goldie tightened his grip upon her throat. ‘Who were you selling her to, bitch?’

Jessie walked backwards to the door as Goldie continued gleefully.

‘Do you know what? I think I know. Yeah, see, I don’t read the papers much, but Jah here does and he saw something in them the other day about a pop star. Tommy Hanson, no less, looking for a bird, a bird he’d met in Birmingham…’

Jessie opened the door. The latch was well oiled and efficient. Goldie needed to be able to trust his locks; in his business doors needed to shut quickly and cleanly. The hinges were in equally good repair and the door swung open noiselessly. Jessie stepped through it and shut it behind her. Then, from the outside, she inserted the Chubb key into the deadlock and turned it.

Only then did the thugs inside notice that Jessie was no longer in the room.

But even as they realized this, once more Jessie was running from one of Goldie’s houses. It would take Goldie over a minute to descend into the kitchen, get his own keys from his coat and return to the front door. Even then he would not be able to open it, for Jessie had had either the good sense or simple good fortune to leave the Chubb key in the outside lock. Goldie would not get his key in. He would need tweezers and a nailfile to work out the key that Jessie had left.

She was free.