The Vanity Game (30 page)

She pushes the mirror towards me and shouts: "Do a couple". I pull a note out from my wallet roll it up and snort. It feels weird, kind of acidy as it hits the top of my nose. Not like any coke I've done before. As I feel my bloodstream absorbing it, I wonder if it actually is coke at all, or whether she's given me speed or something worse. I feel panic rising inside me and my heart starts beating faster. What if I OD? She's smiling back at me, mouthing something, an evil smile. Why isn't she doing the other lines? The music starts to sound weird, as if it's slowed down, and then the room starts to spin. My heart's beating so fast it might explode. Oh my God, I am ODing, having a heart attack. She's running up the stairs – running away? To get help? I try to reach out to her but can't move, darkness is creeping in from the corners of my eyes…

…Pain – my back and head, I'm being moved, dragged along the floor … a nightmare … no the pain is real … darkness again.

The pain brings me back to a hazy consciousness. Immediately: panic. Where am I? On a chair, sitting upright. I can't move my arms, they're tied behind me, my shoulders ache. There's something dark above my eye, it's moving, and now running down my face. Blood, increase in panic. What the fuck has happened? The front of my head feels open, I can feel the air, oh my God, I'm injured pretty badly. What if my brain is exposed and leaking out? I could be dying right now.

A vague sensation comes back … a memory … in that club, the red-haired girl. How long ago was that though? And what the fuck has happened since? I can feel my chest tightening as if an actual panic attack is coming on. Suddenly a face appears in front of me, and I think I might faint with fright. It's grimacing menacingly, I feel really fucking threatened.

"Welcome back," the face says and then disappears. In its place, in front of me, there's a door. I'm in a room. It's dim and bare, with grey peeling wallpaper. A derelict flat or office? It smells of dust and old paper. But there's natural light coming from somewhere. I glance to my right and see a narrow, high window filled with more grey, this time the clouds outside. I feel like I'm high-up, like in a tower block. What the hell is going on? How did I get here? Fuck, what's happened to me?

Another shot of panic – the door is opening. Three men in black clothing come in. They must be agents of The Substitutors, this is the only thing I'm sure of. Oh my God, they've finally got me.

A sharp scraping sound. What the hell is it? A torture implement? But no, it's a chair being dragged across the floor. It's placed in front of me, along with a small table. I take a deep breath, my chest hurts, like all my ribs are broken. What have they done to my beautiful body?

One of the men sits down and stares at me. He's pale, pock-marked… I'm paralysed with fear, there's absolutely zero possibility of this man being friendly, a Lover, as I once called them. Once, never again, this could be the last few moments of my life … how will they find me? Mum…

"Nice to have you with us again, we may as well get started," he says. A sharp accent, not British.

"Wha…" a noise just comes out of my mouth, I can't speak.

"Ah! Questions, no doubt you have many," Pock-marks replies.

They're going to kill me, this is it. I want my Mum, more than anything. A huge sob comes out as a cough, and I feel tears running down my cheeks. He leans back in the chair and watches me until I stop.

"But we are not here to answer your questions."

He puts a brown folder on the table, just like the police interview... That seems so long ago now.

Photographs. Pock-marks is laying them out on the table. Through the tears I see they're photos of me. I'm posing, shirtless and oiled, staring at the camera.

"Who is this?" he says, looking up from the photos. What am I supposed to say? It is me, isn't it? What the fuck am I supposed to say?

"Me. "

Blistering pain, the back of my head. Oh God, no. I cry out. I try to lift my hand, to protect myself, but they're tied up. I am dying. The chair jolts back, someone is behind me pulling it. They must have hit me.

"No," says Pock-marks. "You are wrong. This is Beaumont Alexander and you are not Beaumont Alexander."

What the fuck? But I am Beaumont Alexander, or at least I was.

He shows me a passport. Mine. My mug-shot photo, the name, Alexander. Beaumont Christian. Fourteenth of the eighth nineteen eighty three.

"Who's is this?" he asks.

I swallow hard. The single thing I can be sure of is that the wrong answer is 'mine'. I open my mouth, but no words come out, apart from a small noise:

"Ah…"

Every muscle in my body tenses itself for another blow, but none comes.

"Well?"

"I don't know."

The words scratch my throat, I am betraying myself.

He unfolds a newspaper article. There's a picture of me. I'm walking away from my Mercedes, on my mobile. Me, that person, long ago, no longer, not now.

"What about this?"

Desperately, I want to scream out, 'Me, it's me,' and let them kill me, let them beat me, it will be over quickly. But something in me, chicken or courage I can't tell, is willing me to live. Hanging on, hope, as thick as a human hair, just hanging on.

"B..B..Beaumont Al-Alexander," I stammer, praying it's the right answer, hoping it's wrong and death will come quickly. Death. Peace. But he smiles a chilling, thin smile.

"Yes. And who are you?"

The honest answer? Give him what he wants.

"I don't know."

Tears mix with blood, I feel like I'm choking.

He looks beyond me, above me.

"Take him back, and see to the wounds."

The guy behind me, that's who he's talking to. Someone – him – is touching my hands, untying me. What will come next? Will it be worse than this? Can it be? He grips my wrists and then a voice, "Stand up."

The voice of the face I saw earlier. My whole body aches as I slowly raise myself out of the chair. Every nerve in me is in pain, so bad I can't focus on one part. The man, the thug, pushes me to one side where I see a door. That's where they're taking me … going to lock me in that room.

Inside – another man – Black Gloves. A low bed, a blanket – like the cell. They push me onto the bed. Oh God no, not this, not the Unspeakable … why had I played along? I should have let them kill me.

But they don't push me face down, they let me sit, so I can see them – The Thug and Black Gloves. The Thug has a white cloth, a bottle of something…

…The pain is agonising, a stinging so bad I almost grind my teeth out. But the smell … it's antiseptic, I remember Pock-marks' words 'see to his wounds'. A tiny feeling of relief.

Now The Thug is tying a bandage round my head. He's standing close to me so his crotch is almost in my face. I'm retching at the smell, so musty and dirty. But still, at least they didn't do the Unspeakable.

He finishes tying the bandage and steps back and Black Gloves throws a bottle onto the bed. It's filled with something clear. They both go out of the room and slam the door, the rattle of the lock … ten times worse than the cell, a thousand times … will they just leave me here to die?

Please God, may this just be a nightmare, please God may I wake up and none of this ever happened?

I look down at my clothes. My shirt is ripped and has streaks of blood all over it…. Why am I wearing this? I force myself to think – but it hurts, like my brain is pushing against the wound … but I can remember. I'm in that club, the girl with the red hair, taking me down those steps, giving me that stuff … she was one of them. And Jon, did he lead me into this? My own friend … but no, he was one of them too. I realised but I didn't want to accept it. How could I have been so stupid? How long ago was that? It seems like another lifetime ago, another world. It is another world, I was free. Now I don't know what they want to do with me or why they're keeping me alive.

I slowly take a sip of the liquid in the bottle, it tastes of nothing. I take another gulp, and wait for the stomach cramps. But none come, it's just water.

I look up and see a narrow window, like the one in the other room. If I stand on the bed I could look out, maybe get help. The pain is agonising but I manage to get up on the bed and lean towards it. Tower blocks loom outside against a grey sky. I must be high up, like I thought. I could be anywhere in London … or maybe not even in London. The window itself is thick double-glazing and there's no way to open it. Besides it's far too narrow to climb through and even if I could, it would be a sheer drop down. No means of escape. I am trapped. At their mercy.

I get down off the bed and go towards the door, put my ear against it and listen. They're in the room, talking, but in a language I can't understand. One of them laughs, a deep, menacing cackle. Psychopaths, these people are capable of anything…remember Serge?

"Whoever did that to Serge was insane, daft or just sick in the head…"

Oh Dante, if only I could contact you now. I'd tell you everything.

"I don't know, I don't know," I'm screaming.

"It's okay, it's okay, son," The Beard says, holding me.

"Just make him stop."

Black Gloves sniggers, swinging the baseball bat.

"He will. He just goes a bit psycho sometimes. You have to forgive him. You see, he's a big fan of Beaumont and he hates fakers like you claiming that you're him. You're not him are you? You never have been?"

The Beard wants to help me, he'll protect me.

"No," I cry, weeping into his chest. I know this is what he wants to hear.

Then I'm back in my sanctuary, shivering under the blanket. Pain is everything, my whole world. I think it's been three days now, but there's no way of knowing. Day and night don't exist, there is just being in this room or being out there, not in this room.

Still they keep me alive. But this beating was the worst yet. The baseball bat. I can't stop shaking.

The Beard is a friend. He took my head in his hands and stared into my eyes. He is old, with a fatherly beard and small green eyes that I can see sympathy in.

"You see, Peter," (they've started calling me Peter since the last two sessions) "Beaumont is perfection. We have to keep him that way. He is another being, not actually human. You must sacrifice yourself for him. Sacrifice yourself for his perfection! You will do it, won't you?"

"Yes," I sob, choking on my own blood and saliva.

"Good, Peter, that's my boy!"

He sits by the bed and holds a compress to my head: coldness. I focus on the cold, not the pain.

"Why are they doing this?" I whisper, a small, pathetic croak.

I hear him breathe out, like maybe this question amuses him.

"They just want you to understand who you really are."

"But I... I know who I am."

"Well then, you don't need to worry."

The feeling of cold, a breeze, air. I'm outside. I can hear cars going past, I can sense their movement. I am no longer in the room, but I'm also not
there
. I'm wrapped in something. I try to stand up, but fall back. Every fibre in me throbs with pain, especially my right arm.

I try to stand up again and this time manage to grab the wall to steady myself. It's dark, but this place is lit – a street, deserted. Where are They? Where is The Beard? They must be here, somewhere. I try to take a step forward. A bus goes past, a double-decker, but not a red one ... not a London bus. Where the hell am I? I take another step forward, and everything starts spinning and I feel the blackness filling my eyes.

"Are you okay, mate?" a voice is saying.

Young, male, Scottish. Doesn't sound like one of Them. I want to answer, but I can't make my mouth work. Perhaps he's not talking to me, maybe I'm not really here.

"Let's not fuck around, Barry. Just call an ambulance. It's probably just some junkie." A female voice, Scottish again. Fuck me...

And then nothing … oh please come back!

"Jesus, Anthony. What d'ye reckon's happened here? Can you hear me son?" Another female voice. I must in Glasgow, or Edinburgh. I came here once, the Champions League, Celtic, four nil. I scored ... he scored ... TV footage replaying the goal, over and over again.

Something prods my face. So they are real. I try to move my hand.

"Alive, at least."

"Serious case of GBH I'd say. Probably a drunkard set upon by some yobbos. Let's get the fella onto the stretcher."

"Agggh!"

Is that me screaming?

"It's alright lad," the woman at my head, is saying.

It's this Anthony, who got my legs, that's the problem. Dean's body … carrying it to the river. Is that where they're taking me? No, I'm not dead yet! I try to move.

"Just try to stay still mate," she says.

"Broken bones and severe head injuries. Let's hope it's not an internal bleed."

I'm tipped backwards, jerked around, floating above the ground. Then I'm inside somewhere again – a small space, smells of antiseptic, but it's not back in
there
, no. The whole thing sways, an earthquake? And the noise, a blurred screeching. Something is over my nose and mouth, something cold, like the outside.