The Vanity Game (15 page)

I ignore Dean and check on the chicken that's under the grill.

"In fact, I might just text him and tell him that. We're mates you see, me and Craigy."

Laughable. As if the soppy cunt would hang out with a loser like Dean. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he gets his phone out and pretends to text Craig Slaughter.

"What, so then he'll get banned for the next three matches at least and then you won't have him for the game against United?" I say, pleased that I gave myself time to think about a comeback. I know I'm not that sharpest tool, but Dean is dense as fuck.

Dean just laughs, but I can tell he knows I'm right.

"Craigy will fuck you up, you just wait and see."

He gives me this hard stare before he walks away. The fucking bastard. In my house. I'm so angry I just stand there, staring after him, until I start to smell burning and then have to dive for the grill and rescue my chicken. I can't be bothered to cook a new piece so I just pick the black bits off. Still, at least I got one back at him.

But it's just one tiny offensive in this fucking war. The night before the game, the night before I have to get up at 5am, I'm sitting drinking a multi-vit shake when I start to feel funny. It starts with a slightly nauseous feeling, which develops into a full-on going-to-barf feeling and I have to push back my chair and rush to the sink. He must have heard the chair legs scrape on the floor as he appears quick as fuck as I'm reeling back from the sink and starting to feel even stranger. It's a feeling I recognise, but it's out of context, and he's grinning at me, his evil fucking grin and I'm thinking 'no, no way…'

"Feeling a little odd, are we Monty?"

I take deep breaths.

"Feeling a little jazzy maybe?"

My head feels like someone's cut the top off. It's kind of funny, yes, it's funny even though I've got the game tomorrow and I'm supposed to hate Dean.

He laughs and I find myself laughing too.

"That stuff should have you bouncing round the place all night. It's the best E in London. I bet that was one fine tasting multi-vit shake, eh?"

"Ecstasy?" I say.

I'm sliding down the kitchen cupboard now, slumped on the floor, just like Krystal.

"You bet. I'd take one myself but I want to be bright and chipper for the big game tomorrow. You really should be more considerate yourself, considering you're playing in it."

"Oh Christ."

He comes and stands over me and I think he's going to kick me so I lean forward to grab his legs but he steps away.

"You're a fucking disgrace," he says, and walks off.

Oh fuck. I try to stand up and focus. I'm high on ecstasy. I have to be up at 5am. I might get drugs tested tomorrow. But really, right now, do I care? I find I can walk and, in fact, it feels like I'm floating as I slide over to the stereo and put on some Boyz II Men. I flop into the sofa as 'I'll Make Love to You' soars above me and I start laughing again. At some point The Fake appears and she's trying to feed me coffee and water, even though coffee is the last thing I need, and she's taking my phone off me and trying to pull me up. Is she trying to drag me into bed with her I wonder? Trying to take advantage of me? And I should be embarrassed when she's wiping away the spit that's dribbled onto my chin, but I'm not.

I seem to remember her and Dean shouting, and something smashing, and then I'm in my bedroom and she's there, trying to undress me and I'm laughing as she's saying "Just get into bed, please!" and she's pulling the covers over me and I can't work out why she's not getting into bed herself.

I don't know how long I sleep, if at all, because I seem to lie there, staring at the ceiling a while and then the alarm is going off, and I'm still feeling a bit jazzy, but it's undercut with a terrible, terrible feeling: a lurking bad come-down and the knowledge that I'm supposed to be playing today.

Dean, the fucking absolute bastard fucking cunt.

I somehow make it to the training ground, and onto the plane, and onto the pitch and it's a fucking miracle, no lie, that I'm not drugs tested, and also a sort of miracle that the arsehole Slaughter crunches into me ten minutes in and not only gets a red card himself but also gives me an excuse to act like I'm in pain, so I'm taken off after fifteen minutes and Di Cotto has to risk poor little Nico. It's a crying shame, don't get me wrong, faking injury to get taken off in a big game, but I swear to God, if I'd stayed on that pitch for the full ninety I think it would have killed me. I lie on the physio's table, almost nodding off as he prods me. I'm so tired, I could die from lack of sleep. It's still good to hear the final whistle and that we've stuffed the bastards three one.

I sleep most of the way home, which I know leads all the lads and Di Cotto to think I had a late one last night and maybe I'm back to my old ways. Christ, if they only knew. I'm so exhausted, I can't even feel angry, but I know anger will come.

I've had a full-on training session and I'm completely cream-crackered by the time I get back to the house. It's not just because the training's been hard, it's also because I got fuck all sleep last night. It was one of the worst ones yet. There must have been about ten of the bastards round, with a few of the smack-head hookers and all, making a fucking racket until God-knows what time.

I took an extra sleeping pill, and even then had trouble getting off to sleep. At one point there was a massive crash followed by guffawing and this morning I found that one of Krystal's Chinese vases had been knocked off its stand and smashed into several pieces. I hope the disruption to the
Feng Shui
vibes causes the Gods, or whatever spiritual dude is behind all that crap, to curse Dean's destiny. The house was a total mess. There were drink cans everywhere, the stench of stale fag smoke, food bowls had been used as ashtrays. Olga the cleaner quit weeks ago after Dean tried to grope her whilst she was hoovering and Serge is still trying to find a replacement, so I shoved a few cans in the bin then thought 'fuck it' and left for the training ground.

So I'm pulling up outside the house and I see the Lanky Wanker's car, a tacky red Ferrari parked up outside. Absolutely fucking great. I don't know how much longer I can deal with this. It seems like last night the battle-lines had shifted again, and I'm losing ground all the time. Dean is here more and more these days, he's like an ugly cuckoo chick, slowly taking over the nest, like I saw in a nature programme once. Greedy little fuckers, they were just like him.

I hear his voice as I'm walking up the stairs: "Listen, doll … thing is darling…" He's obviously talking to The Fake. I try to walk past real quiet as I really don't want to talk to them but as I'm creeping past the door – like some fucking thief in my own house – the Wanker shouts, "Alright gay cunt?" I just ignore him and head to the kitchen to get myself a protein shake. It looks tidier, the rest of the drink cans and the ash-trays have gone. I don't know who the hell has tidied up, no way would Dean, could The Fake have?

I open the fridge and it's literally bulging with crap: processed, cheap food, beer cans, fizzy drinks. This fucking upsets me because I've got to eat and drink all this bland health food stuff. But then I figure that's why I look so good and Dean is so fucking ugly.

Still, as I watch the thick protein shake glug from the carton into the glass a feeling of utter hopelessness comes over me. Christ, I've even taken to reading books, something I've not done since I was forced to at school, and the highlight of the evening will be finding out whether Maxwell, the spy in
The Tiger Turns
, manages to get out of China alive before the Chinese mafia gets him. I wish I was a spy, then I could do whatever the hell I wanted and no one would know who I was…

…There's a used condom lying on top of the rubbish in the kitchen bin. I stare at it, totally grossed out, with my foot still on the bin pedal and the empty shake container still in my hand. It's so brazen, just lying there, the cum festering in a glob at the end and the open ring staring up at me, like a mouth going 'Oh'. Someone else's used johnny lying in
my
fucking kitchen bin – well that says it all. How dare these bastards come into my house, the house I bought with my well-earned money, and fuck at will, probably on the worktop here in the kitchen, the worktop me and Krystal chose together. And I can feel the anger rising in me, an anger I've not dared to let myself feel since that night with Krystal. It's so awful to think about that now, to think it was all over a
Chic!
shoot. Poor, messed up Krystal, lying there on this kitchen floor, bleeding to death whilst I just stood there. So maybe I deserve to be punished, but surely they're worse, because they've taken advantage of the whole thing. I kick the bin really hard and it lifts a few feet up in the air then lands with a clatter on its side, spewing its contents out onto the kitchen floor. As soon as it's landed, the anger drains away and I feel so empty, I want to curl up in a ball and die. But then there's a sound behind me, a quiet shuffle which makes me start. I turn round and he's there, the Lanky Wanker, leaning against the door frame with this mocking, evil smile on his face.

"Tut tut tut, what a mess the pretty boy's made," he says slowly.

"What do you want?" I say, trying to challenge him but it comes out as a pathetic whimper.

"I want you to clean that mess up for a start, gay boy." He takes a step towards me. He's a streak of piss, but he's as tall as me. Still, I must be stronger.

"It's my house and I'll do what I want."

He smiles, showing his vile, yellowing teeth. "Is that so, gay boy?"

He's taken another step closer. I'm eyeing the knife block behind him. Could I do it again? If only. But no, I can't risk it. Now the bastard is almost right in front of me, glowering at me. I'm leaning back against the worktop, there is nowhere else I can go.

"I said clean that mess up you fucking little cunt!" he screams suddenly, leaning right in close so I get a face full of his fag-breath.

It must be instinct, because I'm kind of shocked myself when I feel my fist connecting with his face. He stumbles back from the force of the hit and for a split second looks up at me with this shocked, pathetic look in his eyes. Then he's lunging towards me, his own fist aiming for my face, but I manage to shield myself and I go for him again, feeling the adrenaline running through me thick and fast.

Then The Fake appears, and she's screaming "No Dean, no!" and trying to pull him away. He tries to free himself, pushing her back and causing her to fall down against the stools around the breakfast island. She lets out a whelp of pain and even though she's The Fake I'm disgusted and want to go to her and protect her from this violent monster. But the bastard's coming at me again. This time I swing at him and it strikes him right between the eyes. It's like in a cartoon where the guy gets hit then flies across the room and falls down with a ring of stars round his head. Well Dean does fall pretty hard against the Aga stove, where I hear his head crack against the oven door before it falls forward on his chest and he's completely still, but there's no ring of stars.

There's a perfect moment of silence. He's still not moving. I'm scared to take my eyes off him but I hear a whimper behind me and turn slowly round. The Fake is still sitting on the floor near the breakfast island, and she looks back at me with these watery blue eyes, and yeah, I detect a little awe and admiration.

"Are you okay?" I ask at last, feeling like the action hero in a clichéd Hollywood film, even though I'm reminded of another scene in this kitchen with a different storyline and a different actress.

"My name's Stella and I grew up in Salford," she's saying, in between the sobs. "I never wanted it to go this far, I swear."

The mask has well and truly dropped, no fucking lie. Me and Stella, as she's now called, are in the lounge. I'm holding a bag of ice cubes wrapped in a tea-towel against my throbbing knuckles which have come up a nice shade of red. Stella is working her way steadily through a box of tissues, a little mountain of them screwed up in balls on the sofa next to her already. She's halfway through her life story and I'm just willing her to get to the part where she decided to come and play my dead ex-girlfriend.

"My dad walked out on us when I were five, and my mam had four other kids to look after so I just started going a bit off the rails. I ended up with this guy. He was seven years older than me and a smack addict. We got into debt and, well, I ended up doing these films, you know. That's when I met Dean."

"My dad walked out as well," I find myself saying, and taking her cold hand for a moment. It's the second time we've held hands – the first was when I'd helped her to get up off the floor, and she gripped me, shaking like hell. Then she flung her arms round me, whispered 'thank you' and has been crying ever since.

Finally she gets onto the important stuff. She tells me Dean was a real nasty piece of work – a drug dealer and a pimp who ran a number of girls, including her, and pressurised them into high-class escort jobs or porno flick roles. So I try to forget how many times I've been off my face on coke with a high-class hooker, and try to convince myself that the people who supplied me with both those things were a better breed of dealer/pimp than the bastard whose dead body is slumped against my Aga. Jesus, I don't even want to think about that, another body in the kitchen, it's like it's cursed or something. But then this time it was in self-defence…