Private Oz (21 page)

THEY DIDN’T NEED to wait in line, showed the invites to a huge bouncer at the head of the line. He peered at the papers, stared Darlene and Johnny up and down, nodded to the double doors. As Darlene walked in, she took a closer look at Micky’s invitations. In the top right of each she saw the letters: “VIP.”

It was a huge club. Music throbbed from powerful speakers. Lights swept and flashed. One vast wall was covered with an early Pink Floydesque display of psychedelic colors.

It was packed. They forced their way across the main floor of the club. Where the hell was Micky?

They reached the bar, leaned in, trying to attract the attention of the barman.

Johnny glanced around, saw Chris Martin from Coldplay talking to Russell Crowe. At the other end of the bar half of INXS shared a joke with Michael Bublé

Darlene wasn’t paying much attention. She caught the eye of the bar tender. She was good at doing that.

“Hello, darlin’,” he oozed. “What can I interest you in?”

She switched on the charm. “I’m a close friend of Micky’s.”

“Of course you are, sweetheart!”

She flashed her invite and the guy changed his tone.

“Okay. Cool. So, what do you want, honey?”

“Where’s Micky right now?’

The man shrugged. “How should I know?”

“I
really
would like to know,” she hissed. “And I
really
think Micky would like me to know too. Get me?”

He straightened. “Upstairs in his suite. 212. Second floor, far end … I’d use the stairs, the heads are taking the elevator straight to the washrooms on second.” And he tapped his nose.

MICKY’S SUITE LOOKED like the set of
Satyricon
… precisely what would be expected of a rock star on his twenty-seventh birthday. Scantily clad, kohl-eyed women tottered around clasping champagne glasses, a dealer sat in one corner looking pleased with himself, a female dwarf in a tutu carried around a tray heaped with cocaine.

Micky and Katia held court surrounded by admirers. He strummed an acoustic guitar and sang one of his lesser known songs. A spliff dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Hemi filled an armchair close to where the bedroom flowed into a vast lounge. He’d positioned himself there deliberately so he could follow the action. He was drinking his usual sparkling mineral water and nobody spoke to him.

Micky was on the last repeat chorus of his song when he saw Hemi roll forward and collapse to the carpet in a wobbly groaning heap. He stopped strumming immediately, turned to Katia. She hadn’t seen the big man crumple, but heard the sound of him reaching the floor. She was first up and across the room. Micky came round the end of the bed still holding his guitar.

Katia crouched beside Hemi and managed to roll him over. He was out cold and began to snore. She raised her head to Micky, and burst out laughing. The rock star looked concerned for a moment but then found it very funny. “Too much sparkling water, Hemi,” he mumbled.

Katia stood up and came round to hug Micky. “Let’s get outta here.”

He looked down at her, eyes swimming. “But it’s my party.”

“I want to take you somewhere quiet and lick you all over.”

Micky giggled stupidly. “Well, that’s an offer I ain’t gonna refuse … am I?”

“Graham’s room is empty. He’s banned everyone …”

“Graham’s?” Micky suddenly looked scared.

“Don’t worry … He’s downstairs schmoozing. I got the key earlier from reception … I wanted us to see in your birthday together … just you and me. I want to protect you. No one can touch you ’til after midnight.”

THEY STUMBLED ALONG the corridor giggling. Reaching the door, Katia slipped the key into the lock, opened the door slowly, pulled Micky inside. Graham Parker was getting up from the end of the bed, a bottle of Bourbon in his hand. He looked smashed, had a split lip and a line of Steri-strips across his cheek.

“Ah!” Katia said.

“Don’t mind me,” Parker slurred.

Micky began to jabber incoherently pointing at Parker.

“What’s he saying?”

Katia shushed Micky and guided him to the bed.

Parker looked at the bottle and frowned, turned it upside down. “Damn!”

“I’ll get you something.” Katia left Micky sitting up on the bed, his head back on a mountain of pillows. He was gazing at Parker warily. A few moments later, she was walking back from the drinks cabinet with a bottle in one hand, a tumbler almost full to the brim with amber liquid. She handed the tumbler to Parker. He made a grab for the bottle. “Ah ah!” she tutted and took it over to Micky.

Parker pulled himself into an armchair, took a liberal gulp.

“I’ve got a story,” Katia announced. Parker looked at her blearily.

“Oh, I like stories,” Micky said, swigging from the bottle.

“There was a pope. I can’t remember which one. It was a long time ago, maybe in the tenth century, sometime like that. Anyway, he wasn’t a very popular pope and so he decided to go on a tour of all the Papal Dominions to try to buy the favor of his flock with indulgences. He reached Verona on Mid-Summer Day and was dispensing his promises and his money to the people of the city when a woman who was known to be a witch stood up and yelled to the crowd that the pope would die on October 2 that year, just over two months later.”

Micky was looking at her rapt as a child being read a bedtime story. Parker had his eyes closed, chin on chest.

“They arrested the woman of course, burned her at the stake in front of the pope. But even though the witch was dead, the pope was terrified by her curse. He returned to Rome immediately and tried to put the memory of what had happened in Verona out of his mind. But it was no good. As October 2 approached the pope became more and more agitated. On October 1 he gave strict instructions to his staff and to the cardinals and locked himself in his private chambers. He would see no one and he would not eat or drink anything until 12.01 the morning of the third.

“The pope’s servants followed his every wish and as the clock struck midnight and the second of the month passed into the third the room was unlocked. The elated pope sprung from his bed, walked to the servant, tripped, smashed his head against the leg of a table and died instantly.”

Micky looked horrified and was just about to ask something when Parker tumbled to the floor.

“Shit!” the rock star exclaimed. “Another one!” He turned to see that Katia had taken off her pink silk ribbon necklace and had the sharp tip of the tiny sword at his jugular.

THE STAIRS STOOD at the far side of the dance floor packed with heaving, sweating bodies.

“Must be a back way,” Johnny yelled into Darlene’s ear.

She glanced at her watch. It was 11.55 pm. “No time.” She made for the edge of the crowd, forcing her way between the revelers and the wall of the dance floor. It was almost impossible to move.

Johnny took out his Private ID and squeezed past her. Under the pulsating light show he looked like a plainclothes cop holding up his badge. The sea of humanity parted before him.

He reached the stairs and Darlene almost fell over him. “Neat trick,” she said.

The first floor was dimly lit, the noise from below still incredibly loud. A red carpet led along a corridor between a dozen rooms. They ran for the second flight of stairs.

It was quieter, no one around. Then they heard a sound – laughter, a girl squealing. Darlene glanced at her watch: 11.58.

On the far wall a sign: “Suites 208–215”, an arrow left. Darlene turned on her heel, headed off, Johnny close behind.

The door to 212 stood ajar. They slowed, turned in and
almost fell over a couple of girls rolling around on the floor kissing passionately.

Johnny and Darlene saw Hemi lying on the floor, arms and legs akimbo.

“That’s not good,” Darlene said, pointing at the massive Maori. Johnny went up to the first person who’d listen to him and could string two words together, and asked where Micky was. Darlene ran through the bedroom into the lounge and on to the second bedroom. The bed was a tangle of limbs, groans and moans audible above the music coming from a beat-box in the corner.

After checking Micky wasn’t one of the bodies on the bed she did a one-eighty, charged back into the main bedroom.

“Anything?” she asked Johnny.

“Nope. That lot down the corridor … the druggies in the washroom, the bar tender mentioned. Maybe they know something.”

“Or Micky’s with them.”

They tore along the plush carpet, careered around a corner, pulling up just short of an elderly Asian maid pushing a cart filled with toiletries. She was wearing earplugs.

“Whoa!” she shrieked and pulled out the earplugs, grimacing at the noise.

“Sorry,” Darlene said. “Can you help? We’re looking for Micky Stevens.”

“Who?”

“The pop star?”

“Never ’eard of him,” the maid said irritably. “Just can’t stand this awful noise.” She paused. “Oh, I know who you mean! It’s his party … right?”

Darlene nodded.

“He’s got Suite 212. Terrible mess he always makes.”

“He’s not there.”

“I saw him only a few minutes ago. He went off with a girl.”

Johnny stepped forward. “Tall, skinny, black hair?”

The maid nodded. “They went that way. The older man … his boss.”

“Micky’s manager?”

“Whatever you call him … his room is down there … 215.”

THEY RAN AT full pelt along the corridor. The door to 215 was locked. Johnny whipped a penknife from his pocket. Darlene stood aside as he levered up a blade and slid it into the lock. He twisted it right, left, back, then left again. They heard a click and the door opened.

Katia was on the bed crouching over Micky, her black eyes almost supernaturally huge. The rock star looked petrified, rigid, eyeing the tiny but deadly sword at his throat.

It took Darlene and Johnny a second to absorb it all. They saw Micky’s manager, Graham Parker, unconscious on the floor.

“What’s happening?” Johnny asked, trying to keep his voice as calm as he could.

“Yeah … what
is
happening?” Micky slurred. He had sobered up out of sheer terror, but his voice hadn’t caught up.

Katia blew the singer a kiss. “Dear Micky,” she said softly. “You see … just like all pop stars, you could never keep your cock in your pants, could you?”

“What?”

“You probably don’t even remember her, do you?”

“Remember who, Katia?”

“In 2010 Fun Park played a gig in Moscow. You must remember that!”

“Yeah.”

“After the show you met a young girl.”

“I’ve met a lot of …”

“Don’t!” Katia yelped and moved her hand forward a fraction.

Micky’s fists clenched. “Agh!”

“Oh stop being a baby!”

Micky took a couple of deep breaths. He was sweating profusely. “You bitch!”

She blew him another kiss and smiled sweetly. “I mention the girl because …”

“What fucking girl?” Micky turned his eyes to Johnny and Darlene and gave them an imploring look.

“That girl was my sister, Anais. You got her pregnant.”

“What! I didn’t …”

“You didn’t what, Micky? Didn’t screw her? ’Cos I know you did.”

“I had no idea …”

“She wrote to you. She tried to contact you. Never a single reply. You discarded her, simply brushed her off.” Katia was staring down at the singer, her face contorted, eyes ablaze. Johnny and Darlene knew they could do nothing.

“Katia,” Micky pleaded. “Please … I didn’t know. No one told me. Maybe I can help now …”

“She’s dead, Micky. Died having a backstreet abortion.”

There was a stillness in the room. No one spoke.

“I’m so sorry,” Micky began.

“Sorry?”

“I didn’t know …”

“Anais suffered so much.” A tear slithered down Katia’s cheek.

Micky moved in the bed and placed his hands gently on Katia’s cheeks, wiped away the tears. He looked into her eyes. “I really am …”

For a second, Katia began to respond, closed her eyes, went to kiss the pop star. But then she jolted, eyes snapped open. She shoved him back, the tiny dagger at his vein again.

“I could have killed you anytime, Micky, but I wanted you to
suffer
. I instilled in your mind the idea of you joining Club 27 a few months ago – you’ve been too stoned to remember that. And, I could also blame it all on Parker. I made you think that too.”

Time was running out … both Johnny and Darlene sensed it. Katia had suddenly gone frighteningly calm. She leaned back slightly. They could see her tighten her grip on the miniature sword.

There was a movement from behind the woman. Darlene and Johnny managed to stay still, to show no reaction.

Katia flicked them a glance. “I have to kill him, you see,” she said, now way too calm. “An eye for an eye … and I loved Anais.”

She went to push her hand forward and Graham Parker’s fist swung round. Katia reacted fast, ducked and shot her hand out away from Micky’s throat, running the tiny blade across Parker’s face. He yelped, fell back, hands to his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

Katia was off the bed, ramming straight into Darlene,
knocking her into Johnny with surprising force. Johnny grabbed for Katia as he tumbled, but she sidestepped him and was through the door out into the hall.

“DARLENE, STAY HERE. Call 000.” Johnny snapped, turned and headed after Katia.

She’d vanished, but there weren’t that many places she could run to. Johnny turned a corner and saw the woman slam open the door to Micky’s suite. He heard screams from the room and ran after her.

She was like a storm trooper plowing through the party sending people flying left and right. She turned, saw Johnny no more than ten feet behind her and lashed out. A woman fell to the carpet, smashing her head on a chair leg. Katia almost tripped over Hemi who had been left to sleep on the floor.

For a second she didn’t seem to know what to do. Then she reached for a champagne bottle, smashed it on a table, gripping it in her right hand. She spun round. Half the people were so stoned they moved like zombies. A few looked petrified. Katia grabbed the closest girl to hand, a naked waif with cocaine powdered over her tiny breasts. The kid screamed as she was pulled back and Katia held the jagged spikes of the shattered champagne bottle to the girl’s slender neck.

“Get back!” Katia bellowed as Johnny approached.

Someone killed the music and the place fell silent.

“What are you doing, Katia?” Johnny said, taking a step toward her.

The woman was wreathed in sweat, her eyes black and wild, hair stuck to her exquisite face.

“This isn’t you, Katia.”

“Get back I said. NOW!”

“Katia.” Johnny stopped and crouched down a few feet in front of her. Across the room a woman began to sob.

“This is a young kid,” he said, flicked his eyes toward the terrified girl. “Just like your sister … Just like Anais.”

“You don’t know anything about Anais,” she spat.

Johnny had his hands up. “I know she suffered. You said so yourself.”

Katia screamed suddenly. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear it.” She went to move her hand to cut the girl’s face to shreds. Johnny dived forward, grabbed the Russian woman’s hand with his left and smashed his right fist into her gut.

She lost grip on the bottle, the girl slumped to one side and Katia groaned but kept on her feet, stumbling backwards. Johnny rushed forward, smacked her across the face, hard. She flew across the room like a swatted insect, slammed into a cabinet of glass shelves bringing the whole lot down on top of her, shards cascading all around her still body.