Mean Spirit

‘He’s, uh … quite a solid-looking guy. Dark, crinkly hair?’

‘Moustache?’

‘Yeah, yeah, big black moustache.’

‘Earring?’

‘One earring, quite large. Kind of showy. Bobby, didn’t you talk to him?’

‘Look, I’m bringing the car over now, Grayle, so don’t go anywhere, will you?’

‘Bobby?’

‘Should be there in about…’

‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘… an hour? Just over?’

‘Oh Jesus freaking Christ.’

‘Don’t say any more, OK?’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s fucking dead. Bobby you have to … Oh God, no. Bobby, lis-’

Maiden cut the line, put the Mini awkwardly into gear. Over the city of Gloucester the clouds were closing in for rain.

Part Three

From Bang to Wrongs: A Bad Boy’s Book,

by GARY SEWARD

I suppose I better watch what I’m saying, ’cause the fact is — and any professional will tell you this — that you only go down for a small fraction of what you actually done.

Course some people is not so fortunate as others — like my old mate Clarence. Clarence has done over twenty-five years all told, I reckon. But I have always been ‘lucky’, and there are still some senior policemen grinding their teeth every time they think of me, but that’s the way it goes. Bar a couple of messy bits, I have had what you might call a charmed life, and now I have returned to my roots and live among the rural nobs in one of the ‘big yellow houses’ that I remembered from my childhood. One of my neighbours is Prince Charles and, although I have not yet received an invitation to dine with him and his lady at Highgrove, I am sure it will happen one day.

Yes, my life is pretty good and I live it the way I have always done, taking great big bites out of the pie but always aware of the signs and omens. Signs and omens are very important and why I have been lucky. This is not superstition, far from it. It is recognizing that there are times to move and big pickings if you get it right. You see the signs and you have to react; you got to have the nerve to go for it, no matter what other people say. The older I get the more I am aware of signs and omens, but if you call me a mystic I’ll still break your bleedin’ arm.

XX

Rain and a phone call drove the inhabitant of the pink caravan indoors.

The phone call was from London. ‘It’s me,’ Jo said. ‘I’ve found out why he did it.’

The rain was from Ireland. Normally it would not have bothered him, for there was something energizing about rain billowing in over the sea. But it might not be terribly good for the little mobile phone and so he carried it back into the caravan, sitting on the edge of his bed-settee.

‘So’, he said, ‘there was a reason. Other than the humiliation of a creepy old man.’

He was looking down the field to the other caravans. Four there were, in all, in the field above St Bride’s Bay.

What have I told you about going near that creepy old man?

The three green ones would be uninhabited until Easter, when the owner of the pink one would be obliged to wear ladies’ clothing nearly all day for the benefit of small children who had no reason to suspect he was not of the female gender.

The false eyelashes could be a soupcon problematical, but generally one didn’t mind. Who could resist such warm acceptance? It was, after all, no more than a year since he’d heard, through the caravan window, a mother dragging a child away — What have I told you about going near that creepy …? Etcetera.

Last autumn, however, the very same woman: Now, I’m sure if you go and ask Cindy very nicely, you can be introduced to Kelvyn Kite.

Creepy old man to cosy celeb in a matter of months, through the magical power of television. Soon it would be the impromptu weekend matinees again, Cindy and Kelvyn at the top of the field recycling the old Bournemouth Pier routines for a handful of holidaymakers and Ifan Williams’s brood from the farm. A little tiring, but it had its compensations. And — who could say? — such was the transience of television that this time next year it could all be over. And the following year, back to …

‘Creepy!’ Jo said. ‘You’re not creepy, for heaven’s sake. Certainly not compared with him.’

‘Kurt?’

‘Well … his obsession with this haunted castle, all that cheesy crap. It’s not healthy, is it? Anyway, that’s beside the point — well, not entirely, it partly explains why he wanted the money.’

‘Money?’

‘From the Lottery.’

‘He especially wanted to win the Lottery?’

‘He wanted to present the bloody show, Cindy! Kurt Campbell wanted your job. In fact, he virtually had the job. Look, after they dumped Alison, you — me too, come to that — we were supposed to be strictly temporary, right? Fill in for a few weeks until they appointed a new presenter and an innovative new producer.’

‘Yes, yes, girl, I know all that.’ Sad, it was. Even at twenty-eight, little Jo had no illusions about the expendability of her production talents in the eyes of the BBC hierarchy. I’m only here as long as you are, Cindy; we were a lucky fluke. Well, yes. Who wanted liver-spotted hands on their big-money balls?

‘But listen to this, Cindy … What you didn’t know and I didn’t know was that they’d been talking to Kurt Campbell for several weeks — very keen to get him for the show, and Kurt knew it, and he was just holding out for more money … I mean much more money — three, four times what they’re giving you. And with the ratings down and the whole deal looking iffy, they were scared enough to hand it over. Signatures were about to go on contracts. Like within the week.’

‘When was all this?’

‘Like I said, just about the time you came in as a temp. And the rest is history — you turn out to be this enormous and entirely unexpected hit, up go the ratings … and suddenly they realize that they no longer need to spend megabucks on greedy Mr Campbell. Suddenly, everybody’s happy. Especially the accountants.’

‘Except’, Cindy said, ‘for Mr Campbell.’

The rain came down on the caravan roof like the drums of war.

‘I’m told that Kurt Campbell’, Jo said, ‘was absolutely livid beyond livid. The job had