The Devil's Graveyard (17 page)

‘Figured out who they are?’

‘Huh?’

‘Kurt Cobain an’ Johnny Cash. Two of the guys on that hit list you had.’ Of course he was right. Sanchez couldn’t believe he hadn’t spotted it sooner.

‘Shit. That Balls fella must have offed these guys too. Wow.’

‘Yeah. We need to get the fuck outta here, Sanchez. We’re now in a washroom with the first three victims from the hit list. Anyone finds us in here, specially after we just been seen draggin’ ole Otis around, we’re gonna be in deep shit.’

Right again. This wasn’t the best place to be hanging around in, and although they were innocent of any wrongdoing, they were prime suspects. What with Elvis being a professional hitman, and that.

But before they had a chance to make an exit, they heard the door to the washroom open. Elvis grabbed Sanchez by the arm and dragged him into stall three. He pulled the door shut behind them and pushed the other man back towards the toilet. The terrified bar owner knew not to say anything, but even so Elvis put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Sanchez found this annoying. He knew to stay quiet. He started to say so, but just then they heard the sound of two men’s footsteps on the tiled floor of the washroom. As he heard them walk towards the urinals, Sanchez hoped their visitors wouldn’t see the blood seeping out from stall two and decide to investigate.

Emily had spent years building up to this, her big moment: the chance to make a name for herself and earn a contract to perform as a star at the Hotel Pasadena. She wished her mother were with her to share the excitement. Having her around would have helped to control her nerves too.

Her mother, Angelina, had been a successful travelling cabaret performer for many years, and Emily’s earliest memories were of wanting to be just like her, to command an audience the way her mother did. As a young girl, she had seen a lot of the world thanks to her mother’s travelling. They had spent months at a time on cruise ships, or settled in at a hotel or casino for a season. It had been a wonderful upbringing during which she had met thousands of interesting people from all walks of life. She had fond memories of hanging out with hotel staff and seeing how impressed they were by her mother’s singing. Angelina sang beautifully and had a wonderful vocal range. This versatility enabled her to perform many old classic songs in a voice almost identical to the original artist’s, no matter how difficult. In venues where she was allowed more freedom, however, she was more than capable of singing her own interpretation of a song.

She had encouraged Emily from childhood to follow in her footsteps, and had been an assiduous tutor. Above all, Emily remembered how she would stand in the wings, watching her mother sing, and wishing she could be just like her. Now was her chance.

Their time on the road together had come to an end two years ago. Angelina had fallen sick with what at first was thought to be a throat infection, but turned out to be far worse. After months of trying to sing, but either being unable to, or putting in substandard performances, she discovered she had cancer of the throat. She was forty-seven. Both of them were devastated.

Emily immediately took over as the breadwinner, but almost every cent she earned ended up being spent on caring for her mother. And it just wasn’t enough. Worse still, her own singing career was badly curtailed because Angelina was too sick to travel. So for the last year, Emily had worked every dive-bar singing contest east of Little Rock in hope of securing that elusive big break. And when she wasn’t singing, she worked in fast-food joints to help make ends meet.

With hope born of desperation, Emily knew that now was her chance to prove she had what it took to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Almost better than that, if she could win the
Back From the Dead
contest, then their money worries would be over. And she’d be a star. Just like Mom. Her mother had been rock-like in her support, urging her to go for it, and with that in mind, and despite her nervousness, she felt an enormous sense of pride as she waited for her turn onstage. The feeling was tempered by her sadness at knowing her mother would not see her perform.

She watched sympathetically from the wings at one side of the stage as a John Lennon impersonator murdered ‘Imagine’. She couldn’t have hoped for a better act to follow, even though, she did genuinely feel bad for him. She’d seen how nervous he had been before he went onstage. He had obviously let his nerves get the better of him, because he hit a bum note in the first line of the song. There had been some dire performances during the show, but his was possibly the worst. Nor was he helped by the fact that the judges let him carry on singing long after they should have called an end to his performance. Many better singers had been stopped after twenty or thirty seconds. This poor hopeful got to sing for almost as long as Otis Redding, just so the audience could enjoy his misery for a little longer than was necessary.

Once he’d finished, the judges were understandably scathing. Emily winced at the hurtful things they came out with.

‘Honey, my
cat
sings like that,’ was the worst comment from the normally sympathetic Lucinda.

Not to be outdone, Candy followed with, ‘My cat sings
better
than that!’

Nigel administered the
coup de grace
by sighing wearily, ‘I think
my
cat just hung itself.’

Maybe the spiteful remarks were a blessing in disguise, for Emily was relieved to see that the audience felt sorry for the guy. His nerves had done him enough damage without the judges adding to his woes. So it was a relief to hear large sections of the audience booing the judges’ comments with gusto. Even so, there was no doubt about it: John Lennon would not be making it into the final.

As the crestfallen Beatle impersonator walked offstage, he smiled at Emily briefly. She could see he was on the verge of tears.

‘You’ll get ’em next time,’ she said, offering a comforting look.

‘Think I’m gonna find Nigel Powell’s cat and borrow its rope.’

It seemed inappropriate to laugh at his joke, but also rude not to, so Emily maintained her sympathetic smile and looked down at her shoes to avoid any further eye contact.

On the stage, Nina Forina, the show’s presenter, was busy working the audience, getting ready to announce that Emily was up next. Nina was a glamorous blonde in her early thirties. She was wearing a long shiny silver dress that showed off just how thin she was, giving the impression that she had no feminine curves at all beneath it. She also sported the obligatory orange tan, perhaps from the same source as Nigel Powell’s.

As Nina chattered away to the watching crowd, Emily caught sight of a man standing in the shadows to her left, near the edge of the stage. He was staring at her, transfixed by something about her. She was flattered at first, but there was a deeply unsettling quality to the way he was staring. He seemed unaware that she had noticed him staring, and every time she looked away she knew that if she were to glance back he would still be directing that fixed stare at her.

After a while, she realized that he wasn’t staring so much at her as at
her dress
. Rattled, she glanced down to check that she didn’t have some kind of ghastly stain on the front of her frock. Everything appeared to be in order. Her shoes seemed fine, too. They were still shining brightly, for she had polished them less than half an hour earlier. They were an important part of her outfit, and she took a quick look over each shoulder in turn as she kicked her heels back one at a time, just to check that there was nothing stuck to the soles. They were as clean as they could be.

Emily was nervous enough without the stranger gawping at her, and partly to ease her nerves she decided to flick her long brown pigtails too, even though the man wasn’t looking at them. She had taken great care to tie her hair up in plaits that hung down in front of her shoulders. She was sure she still looked exactly as she wanted. But her admirer – if that was what he was – was undermining her confidence, intentionally or not. She had checked her appearance in the dressing-room mirror about a hundred times to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. So why was this weirdo staring?

She glanced over at him yet again. He was still staring at her blue dress. This time, however, when she looked at him, she saw his eyes move down. Now he appeared to be checking out her shoes, too.
That’s it
, she thought.
This guy needs to be
put in his place
. Politely, but firmly. She decided that the best thing to do would be to try to engage him in conversation in order to break the ice. Maybe then she’d find out why he was acting so creepy.

‘Kinda bright, aren’t they?’ she called over to him.

The man looked up and stared directly into her eyes. She offered a smile in the hope that it would be reciprocated. It wasn’t. Instead, he stepped out of the shadows he had been sheltering in. Emily couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. This guy was creepy. Worse, his presence wasn’t exactly what she needed just before one of the most important performances of her life. His all-dark clothing made it seem as though he brought the shadows with him as he stepped towards her. As he moved out of the shadows, Emily saw that he was wearing black combat pants and a black leather jacket with a hood hanging at the back. He walked past her, and as he did so he pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from a front pocket on his jacket and slipped them on, hiding his eyes.

And then he was gone.

Emily was glad to see the back of him. She made an immediate decision to put him out of her mind and regain her focus on giving the performance of her life. This was made all the easier for her when, within a moment or two of his disappearance, she heard Nina Forina enthusiastically announce that her turn to perform had come at last. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next performer, Emily Shannon!’

Emily walked out on to the stage, her bright red shoes positively glowing as she walked. She stopped centre stage, next to the presenter. Immediately everyone in the audience began applauding, for it was obvious from her outfit who she was supposed to be.

Nina announced it for anyone who hadn’t worked it out for themselves. ‘Emily is now going to perform ‘Over The Rainbow’ from the film
The Wizard of Oz
. Please put your hands together for –
Judy… Garland
.’

Emily’s performance of ‘Over The Rainbow’ put Nigel Powell in a good mood. The girl had the voice of an angel. Her performance had been breathtaking, and had rightly earned her the longest and loudest standing ovation of the day so far. She had stolen the show, just as he had expected she would. He and his two colleagues on the judging panel had been only too willing to lavish vast amounts of gushing praise on her, as well. She hadn’t let him down. He had handpicked her to be one of the five finalists, and secretly he hoped she would be the outright winner of the contest.

Powell’s benign mood that followed her performance did not last long, however. Shortly after Emily had departed, Tommy, the head of security, signalled to him from one side of the stage. Something was wrong. But what? He called a twenty-minute recess to deal with the problem. He hoped Tommy wasn’t making a fuss over nothing.