Thin Air (4 page)

Rhys Lorrance was the kind of
man who wanted to be seen as a villain. He had a villain’s charm,
and the savage generosity that threatened an equal measure of
cruelty should anyone offend him. It was clear to astute people
that this was an image Lorrance constantly updated and refined.
Sometimes, they wondered whether behind it he was a scared and
gentle man, fond of kittens.

Lorrance was managing director
of Sakrilege, and therefore believed he owned Dex. His property had
gone missing; quite an expensive piece of property that had been
destined to attract more riches into the coffers of the king. So,
in that gilded October, it was likely that Rhys Lorrance was not a
greatly happy man. He could not use his frightening generosity to
entice Dex back into the Sakrilege fold, because no-one knew where
he was. Like Jay, Lorrance doubted Dex was dead. He knew Dex better
than most, and despite what other people might think, did not see
the potential for suicide in Dex’s emotional outbursts. Neither did
he believe Dex could hide forever.

Ten days after Dex’s
disappearance, Rhys Lorrance’s sleek limousine purred to a halt
outside Sakrilege’s office in the West End of London. It was a
beautiful morning, the air crisp and even here in the city smelling
faintly of wood smoke, the essential perfume of autumn. Lorrance
emerged from the back seat of the vehicle, smartly dressed in pale
colours. He had the look of an American soap opera actor; his teeth
looked very white against his tanned face, and his suavely greying
hair was touched with gold. Somewhere in the countryside north of
London, his trophy wife sat painting her nails and looking forward
to the arrival of her aerobics instructor. Lorrance was not
self-made, but his father had been; a man born as Ernest Smith, who
had changed his name to match his fortune. Lorrance had inherited
the country house from his father, and still had a mother
somewhere, declining with frenzied eccentricity in a costly nursing
home. He’d been a wild child of the Sixties and had built his
kingdom from experience gained as a drug-embalmed guitarist with a
psychedelic band called Velvet Gurus. Unlike many of his
contemporaries, Lorrance had crawled from his youth with his
life-force and most of his sanity intact. He found he’d learned
more than he realised during those hazy, smoky years of minor
stardom, and utilised this knowledge wisely. He had a nose for
potential, and it was rare that any act rejected by Sakrilege went
on to find fame elsewhere. In the mid-Eighties, Sakrilege had been
gobbled up by the Charney empire, known as the Three Swords Group.
As well as overseeing Sakrilege, Lorrance was also the prime mover
behind The Eye, a Three Swords tabloid renowned for its excesses.
He knew his overlord was pleased by his work. Lester Charney was a
media mogul of mythic proportions. He owned most of the
entertainment business in England, and continually added companies
to his collection. If Lorrance thought he owned Dex, Lester Charney
was in no doubt that he owned Lorrance.

Charney lived in the Caribbean
now, but like a never-sleeping spider at the centre of its web, he
always knew what went on in the farthest corners of his empire.
Slight vibrations along the threads sent him information. Although
a horde of faceless people ran Three Swords, Charney kept in touch
with the higher echelons of his minions, and a few, such as Rhys
Lorrance, he kept very close indeed. A thread had vibrated and
informed Charney of Dex’s defection. A warning hiss had been
directed at Lorrance. He now responded to its directive.
Quickly.

It was Lorrance who’d plucked
Dex from the ranks of a struggling Northern indie band in the
Eighties. But for this intervention, it was likely that, by now,
Dex would still possess a surname and, if he was lucky, a mundane
job, as well as a wife and children. He would be Christopher
Banner, who lived on a council estate like his parents did, and
drank in the pub his father had used, where on certain nights he
would perhaps watch local bands strain through their repertoire,
while he remembered the days when he’d been up there on the stage
himself.

Lorrance knew that Dex owed him
a lot, in every sense. He appreciated that the artistic type should
be allowed their little displays and that the publicity this
behaviour generated did nothing to harm sales. Quite the opposite.
Dex was allowed to scarper every now and again - it made news - but
he had no right to abscond indefinitely. Perhaps he’d let Dex get
too close. Lorrance had been patient, but since the softly-spoken
call from Charney’s personal office the previous evening, he was
now annoyed and slightly unnerved. He had come to speak with his
own minions about what could be salvaged from the situation.

Zeke Michaels was a senior executive of
Sakrilege; an Igor to Lorrance’s Baron Frankenstein. Many thought
him a brash Lorrance clone, unaware that when alone in Lorrance’s
presence, Michaels became meek, almost submissive. While Lorrance
gave orders, Michaels did the marketing equivalent of turning great
wheels and pulling levers that instead of calling down lightning to
resurrect the dead, pumped life into already burgeoning projects.
Sakrilege was a very healthy creature indeed, but like the monster
of Baron Frankenstein occasionally and inadvertently trampled
weaker species beneath its feet.

Michaels couldn’t help feeling
that Lorrance somehow blamed him for Dex’s disappearance. It was
totally irrational. Most of the time Michaels dealt with Dex’s
manager, Tony, so he’d done nothing himself to upset Lorrance’s
fractious protégé.

His secretary announced the
arrival of the great man, and Michaels composed himself behind his
desk. All his tension was directed into a single finger of his left
hand that drummed against the desk top. Lorrance didn’t come to
Sakrilege very often, and Michaels’ regular visits to Lorrance’s
country estate had ceased. This was because the parties had
stopped, and Michaels knew in his heart that Dex was somehow
connected with that.

Lorrance opened the door and
sauntered in, saying ‘Hi! Zeke!’ as if in surprise.

Michaels’ face had set into an
expression of weary disbelief and resignation. He shook his head
ruefully. ‘All right, Rhys.’ He sighed to show how distressed he
was about the Dex situation.

Lorrance sat down on a huge sofa
beneath the window. Outside, tall grey buildings rose towards the
pristine sky and a shaft of sunlight, fighting its way between
them, fell into the room upon Rhys Lorrance’s head, augmenting his
gilded appearance. ‘Any news about our runaway, then?’

It was a rhetorical question.
News was far more likely to come to Lorrance before it reached
Michaels. Michaels shook his head morosely. ‘No, nothing.’ He
paused. ‘What do you make of all this?’

Lorrance raised an eloquent
hand. ‘Well, it will of course have its advantages. A pity the
album hasn’t yet been properly recorded, but I assume there will be
tapes at Dex’s place.’

‘You talk as if you don’t expect
him to come back.’

Lorrance shrugged. ‘It’s best to
be prepared. Dex takes himself too seriously. There are millions of
little Dexes out there in the world, waiting to be discovered.
No-one is indispensable.’

Michaels felt better already.
‘True. We just go ahead with the album then, as planned?’

‘Yes. I propose we move very
quickly to capitalise on the mood.’

Michaels frowned. ‘What if he
isn’t dead?’

‘I’m assuming he isn’t.’

‘But..?’

‘But what?’

Michaels shrugged awkwardly.
‘Well, he could be seen as a bit of a loose cannon... Who knows
what’s going through his head? He could... say things.’

‘He won’t.’

The words seemed like an iron
screen. Michaels knew better than to pursue the topic. If Lorrance
felt confident in Dex’s silence, then so must he. At that point, he
wondered whether Lorrance knew more about Dex’s disappearance than
it seemed. He was so calm about it. Perhaps this was some kind of
marketing exercise, and at this very moment Dex was ensconced in a
hotel somewhere, swilling expensive liquor at Lorrance’s expense.
‘I’ll call the Samuels woman, then.’

Lorrance nodded thoughtfully,
his lower lip protruding. ‘Perhaps a visit would be more in order.
Take her some flowers.’

‘Do you expect opposition?’

‘From her? No. But it would be
as well to keep her sweet - given her vocation in life.’ He
hesitated, then gestured sharply at Michaels with one hand. ‘None
of us must panic, Zeke. We all know Dex had a problem with some of
the things he’s done, but I really don’t think he’ll divulge
anything. I had a word with him some months ago.’

Michaels nodded.

‘So keep your ears and eyes
open. Let me know if any information comes to you.’

Again, Michaels nodded, although
he didn’t really expect to find out anything, other than what might
be printed in the music papers.

‘I want the tapes by tomorrow
night.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

Later that day, Zeke Michaels drove
round to Jay’s flat. A couple of photographers were still hanging
around, as well as a coven of tear-streaked female fans. Michaels
flashed his teeth for the cameras, nodded to the girls. It was
doubtful they knew who he was, but the photographers were well
aware. He showed them his best side and related that, no, he’d had
no news about Dex. After ringing the door-bell for five minutes, he
thought that Jay must be out, although one of the photographers was
quick to assure him she hadn’t left the place for days. He banged
on the door with his fist, still smiling, crying in the vicinity of
the intercom, ‘Come on, Jay, it’s Zeke. Open up.

‘Women!’ he said to the
photographers.

Presently, the locking mechanism
clicked, and he was able to open the door and walk into the
building. A couple of the photographers attempted to barge past
him, but despite his sleek build, Michaels was not physically weak
and managed to propel the interlopers back into the street, in much
the same manner as dog-owners keep large, persistent pets out of
the kitchen: a combination of leg manoeuvres and body twists.

Dex and Jay’s flat was on the
ground floor. She was waiting for him in the doorway, looking
horrible. Jay Samuels was far too intelligent for Michaels to like
her. He distrusted writers anyway; they were like magpies, always
on the lookout for things to steal from people’s lives. It
gratified him to see her in such a state. What was she grieving;
the loss of her man or the potential loss of her privileged
lifestyle? He thrust the flowers at her. She stared at them,
unblinking. ‘What do you want, Zeke?’

‘Hey, come on, let’s go in,’ he
said soothingly. ‘It’s a bad time.’

Without responding, Jay went
back into the flat, with Michaels following. He shut the door,
dropping the rejected flowers onto a table. The place was a mess;
newspapers everywhere and the stink of cigarette smoke and alcohol
in an airless space. The curtains were drawn, but every electric
light in the place was ablaze. Jay Samuels, in his opinion, seemed
to have lost it - big-time. He wouldn’t have thought it of her. ‘I
take it you haven’t heard from Dex?’ he said, clearing a space on
one of the sofas and sitting down.

She stood before him
belligerently, apparently wearing only a man’s shirt. It was
probably Dex’s. The thought revolted him. She should be out there
on the street with the weeping fans. ‘What do you want?’ she asked
again.

Michaels shifted uneasily. ‘Jay,
I won’t mess with you. As you know, Dex’s disappearance has caused
us a bit of a problem. The album...’

‘Yeah,’ she interrupted dully.
‘His work-room’s through there. Do what you want, then leave.’

Her compliance surprised him.
He’d expected her to be more protective of Dex’s work. ‘Well,
thanks.’ Gingerly, he rose from the sofa and eased past her. She
continued to stare at the place where he’d been sitting. It was a
relief to get away from her.

Dex’s room was in darkness,
heavy fabric over the single window. It had a clean, masculine
smell that hung like a ghost in the air. Michaels shivered
involuntarily. He found the switch to a small lamp and then turned
on the main computer. The light from the screen seemed acidic. Much
of Dex’s work resided as files on the hard disk, although there
were DAT tapes too. Michaels had never had access to Dex’s store of
material before. He knew there would be a pile of songs the public
had never heard, and that Sakrilege had never seen. He was almost
salivating as he reverently began his explorations. His mouth soon
dried. His eyes widened as he looked through the data. The files
were still there - hundreds of them - but they were empty, or
corrupted or full of incomprehensible gibberish. Dex, it seemed,
had sabotaged his own work station.

Heart beating faster now,
Michaels turned his attention to the tapes. Racks of them reared
above his seat, all labelled and dated. Michaels’ attention flicked
over the older tapes. He could see there were treasures there -
songs he’d never heard of - but what he was looking for was the
recent work. There were none, no tapes younger than ten months.

He emerged from Dex’s work-room,
clutching all the tapes he’d salvaged, looking like a man who has
just been told the secret of existence and it hasn’t been good
news.

Jay was sprawled on the sofa
now, the shirt up around her hips. Michaels barely registered the
fact that she was at least wearing underwear, which at first he’d
thought she wasn’t. There was a small, grim smile on her face.
‘Found what you were looking for, Zeke?’

He glared at her for a moment.
Had she done something to the tapes and the computer? ‘What do you
think?’

‘You don’t look very happy, but
you do have a handful of booty.’