Snuff Fiction (21 page)

‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine.’ Norman came blustering into my bedroom, tea on a tray and the big portfolio under his arm. I gaped up at Norman. My panic temporarily on hold. ‘What’s happened to your hair?’ I asked.

‘Ah.’ Norman placed the tray upon a gilded bedside table. ‘That.’

‘That! I’ve seen thin hair before, but neverfat hair.’

‘A slight problem with the old Hairobics. I didn’t exercise the follicles for a couple of days and their new muscles have run to fat. I think I might sport a trilby tonight. Cocked at a rakish angle. Morning, Claudia; morning, Naomi.’

My female companions of the night before yawned out their good mornings. Naomi put her teeth back in and Claudia searched for her truss.

Norman sat down upon the bed.

‘Gerroff!’ cried a muffled voice.

‘Sorry, Kate, didn’t see you there.’ Norman shifted his bum. ‘I’ve brought you these,’ he said, handing me some tablets.

‘What are they?’

‘Drugs, of course. I thought you might be getting a bit panicky by now. These will help.’

‘Splendid.’ I bunged the tablets into my mouth and washed them down with some water. ‘Nothing I like better than drugs on an empty stomach.’

‘Naomi just took her teeth out of that glass,’ said Norman. ‘But never mind. I’ve brought you the guest list. It would be really nice if you’d have another go at trying to remember who’s who amongst the who’s whos. Oh and I’ve just spoken with Lazlo Woodbine on the telephone. He says that he will be unmasking the murderer tonight. And that you probably won’t recognize him, because he will be in disguise.

‘Why will he be in disguise?’

‘To make it more exciting. So I don’t want you to worry about anything. Everything’s under control. The transportation for the celebs. The food, the drink, the drugs, the music, the decorations, the floor shows, the lot. All you have to do is be there. Everything is exactly how it should be.’

I sipped at my tea. No sugar. I spat out my tea. ‘But will anyone actually come? I mean, the Doveston is dead, will people still want to come to his party?’

‘Of course they will. And it was written on the invitations: “In the unlikely event of the host being blown into tiny pieces in a freak accident involving dynamite and catapult elastic, the party will definitely still go ahead. Bring bottle and bird. Be there or be square.

‘He certainly was a class act.’

‘He was a regular Rupert.’

‘Bear, or Brooke?’

‘Bear,’ said Norman. ‘Definitely bear.’

Oh how we laughed. Well, it
was
a good ‘un.

‘Right then,’ said Norman. ‘That’s enough of that. I have to go and make a few final adjustments to my peacock suit. You have another run through the guest list. Ta ta for now.’ And with that said, he upped and left, slamming the door behind him.

I flung the portfolio onto the floor and myself on top of Naomi. I shagged and showered and shaved and shagged some more. And then I went down for my breakfast.

After breakfast, I inspected the great hall. Lawrence had finally completed his work and the vast Gothic room had been transformed into his personal vision of an oriental palace.

The ancient stone walls had been daubed a violent red, with Chinese characters crudely stencilled in yellow. Strings of plastic fruit — mandarin oranges and lychees — hung over the minstrels’ gallery. A few balloons lay scattered about and a sign saying ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR’ had fallen down from above the doorway. Dangling from the central chandelier was something that I at first took to be a dead dog. On closer inspection this proved to be a Chinese dragon, imaginatively formed from sticky-backed plastic and Fairy Liquid bottles with their names blacked out.

Lawrence had gone a little over the five-hundred-pound budget. About one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds over, according to his invoice.

I took up my mobile phone and tapped out a sequence of numbers. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Rapscallion. Masser Edwin here. Find Lawrence and kill him. Goodbye.’

The sun came out from behind a cloud and up on high the angels sang.

I won’t bore the reader with the details of my day. You know what it’s like when you’re trying to organize a big party and you want everything to be ‘just so’. You fuss over the silliest things. Should the Château-Lafite 1822 be served in champagne flutes or half-pint mugs? Big spoons or small spoons for
pâté de foie gras,
or just dig in with the fingers? What if the donkey you’ve hired for the floor show can’t get a stiffy on? Will the monkeys’ heads fit through the little holes you’ve had cut in the dining table? Does everybody’s party bag have the same number of Smarties in it?

Throughout the afternoon, Norman maintained a vigilant position at the gates. I’d had him up the security at Castle Doveston. Inner fortifications had been built; pits dug and lined with bamboo spikes (painted over with invisible paint, so as not to spoil the look of the grounds). But I was still very worried. The Doveston’s obsession with security had not been ill-founded, but they’d got to him and they might well get to me.

Norman was seeing to it that absolutely nothing that wasn’t listed in the big portfolio got through the gates.

The Great Millennial Ball was no secret. News crews and crowds had once more formed about the perimeter fence, eager to view the arriving who’s whos. Norman kept a careful eye on them.

Whenever I wasn’t bothering the chef, the catering staff, the performers, the dwarves, my long-legged lady friends, the human ashtrays or the donkey, I found time to bother Norman.

‘Watcha doing now?’ I asked him.

‘Bugger off,’ said Norman. ‘I’m busy.’

‘What are those?’ I pointed towards a convoy of long black lorries that was heading our way. Impressive-looking lorries they were, with blacked-out windscreens and the Gaia logo on their fronts.

Norman scratched at his head and then disentangled his fingers from his fat hair. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘They’re a bit of a mystery, actually. They’re listed in the big portfolio and there are special parking places marked out for them in the grounds. But I’ve absolutely no idea what’s inside them.’

‘Perhaps it’s the bouncy castles,’ I suggested.

Norman made the face that says ‘you twat’. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘But now please bugger off’

I buggered off

‘And bugger off from here too,’ said the chef I buggered off to my bedroom.

I sat upon my bed and worried. I wasn’t panicking too much, the drugs had seen to that. But I
was
worried. I was
déjà
vuing all the time nowadays. And getting flashes of what was to come. I knew that something awful was going to occur, for, after all, I
had
glimpsed the future. But it was all so confused and I just couldn’t get a grip on how things were going to happen.

As I sat there, memories returned to me. Memories of another time, long long ago, when I had sat upon my bed before another party. The now legendary Puberty Party of 1963. That party had ended very badly for me and even more badly for my dear old dog, Biscuit. Biscuit had been blown to buggeration by the Doveston, now blown to buggeration himself

How would this party end? Any better? I had my doubts.

I togged up in one of the Doveston’s suits. During my few brief months of being very rich I’d managed to put on considerable weight. My own suits no longer fitted. The Doveston’s did.

I chose a white Annani number, Thai silk with a Gaia-logopatterned lining. A Hawaian shirt and a pair of open-toed sandals completed the dashing ensemble. I grinned at myself in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You are one handsome son of a bitch,’ I said.

At half past seven of the evening clock, there came a rapping at my chamber door.

‘Come,’ I called, striking a dignified pose.

The chamber door opened and in came Norman.

‘Holy shit!’ I said.

Norman did a little twirl. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

I didn’t know quite what to think. Norman’s suit was simply stunning. It fitted in all the right places, but it did much more than this. It made Norman seem at least six inches taller, broader at the shoulders and a good deal slimmer at the waist. The suit was of blue, or it seemed to be blue; at certain angles it wasn’t. At certain angles it came and it went and sometimes parts of it weren’t there at all.

But stunning as it was (and it
was),
there was something about it I just didn’t like. Something about it that frankly upset me. Something about it I actively hated.

Norman must have seen the look upon my face. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ll turn it down a bit.’ He pulled something resembling a TV remote control from his pocket and pressed a button or two. ‘Like it a bit better now?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘I do.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to get around that particular problem,’ said Norman. ‘The suit is designed to make me irresistible to women. But the trouble is that it has the reverse effect on men. It makes me seem utterly obnoxious.’

‘But it’s an incredible suit, though. It makes you look taller and slimmer and broader at the shoulders. How does it do that?’

‘Taller...’ Norman lifted a trouser bottom to expose a platform shoe. ‘Broader is the shoulder pads and as to slimmer, I just painted my belly and arse out with invisible paint.’

‘It’s all so simple when it’s explained. So how do
I
look?’

‘Well... um... er... we’d better be going downstairs now. The guests will soon be arriving.’

‘You look a prat in that trilby,’ I said.

The staff were already lined up in the great hall to greet the guests. I inspected the staff, saying things like, ‘You look very smart,’ and ‘Do up that button,’ and ‘Stand up straight,’ and things like that.

The staff responded with polite smiles and whispered words behind the hands. I’ve no idea what these words were, but I’m sure that they were all complimentary.

Now, one of the major problems with holding a big celebrity bash is how to get the celebrities inside. Allow me to explain. You see, no real celebrity wants to be the first to arrive. It’s not fitting to their status. It isn’t cool. It makes them seem over—eager. It’s just not done.

For many years this problem seemed insurmountable. At some really big celebrity bashes, no-one actually came inside the party at all. The celebs just sat about in the car park in their chaffeur-driven cars, patiently waiting for someone else to go in first. And eventually, when morning came, they went home.

This led, inevitably, to some ingenious host coming up with the idea of employing specially trained actors and actresses to play the parts of first guests. They would arrive right on time, climb from their limos, wave to the crowds and go in, thus encouraging the skulking celebs to do likewise.

It was a brilliant idea.

The trouble was that some of these specially trained actors and actresses began to become so famous for always being first at parties that they started getting all stuck up and saying that other actors and actresses should be employed to go in before
them.
And this was done and then the next bunch began demanding the same thing and so on and so forth and suchlike.

The result being that at some celebrity bashes there were no real celebrities at all, just bogus celebrities employed to arrive first and others employed to arrive before them, et cetera.

And if you’ve ever watched any of those big awards ceremonies on the TV, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

To avoid any such problems arising at his bash, the Doveston had engaged the services of a certain Colin Delaney Hughes.

Colin was a famous criminal and, as everybody knows, celebrities just
love
criminals. They love to be in the company of criminals. They love to wine and dine and dance at their nightclubs. Holiday with them at their Spanish villas and island retreats. Get involved in scandals with them when they need publicity to promote their latest movie or album.

Celebrities love criminals.

And criminals love celebrities.

So it all works out rather well.

Colin was retired now, but had been a particularly violent and merciless criminal in his day. Sawing people’s faces off, gunning down the innocent, running drugs and generally getting up to mischief As such, his autobiography had been eagerly snapped up by publishers and had become an international bestseller.

It had taken a big wodge of the folding stuff and two kilos of heroin to secure Colin’s services as first arriving guest. But being the professional he was, he turned up sharp on the dot of eight, an Essex babe on either arm and a great big smile on his face.

I greeted him warmly and shook him by the hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ I said.

And then I introduced him to Norman.

‘Who d’you think you’re looking at, you bastard?’ said Colin.

And after Colin, in they came. The coaches pulled up outside the door and a steady stream of top-notch celebs filtered in, smiling and waving and loveying about and generally behaving as if they owned the place.

‘What a pack of wankers,’ I said to Norman.

‘Bollocks,’ the shopkeeper replied. ‘You’ve buddied up with enough famous folk over the years. You’re just bitter because this isn’t really your party and you’re afraid someone’s going to murder you.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ I said.

‘I rarely am. Here, look, there’s Big-horny-beaver.’

‘Who?’

‘Sigourney Weaver. Watch while I go over and chat her up.’

Norman tottered off into the crowd. I shook more hands and offered more greetings.

There was an interesting pattern to the arrivals. Each giggling gaggle of the glittering glamorous would be followed by its negative counterpart. Grim-faced evening-suited company-chairman types, with well-dressed worn-down women on their arms. Among these, I felt, were the folk I had to fear.

I had already shaken hands with old silly-bollocks and what’s-his-face, the other one. And the two fellows from the Colombian drugs cartel. The bald-headed woman who usually wore the wig had yet to arrive. As had the bloke who runs all those companies.