The Star Witness Page 3

  “…I like you.”

  “Oh…right.” I can’t think of what the hell to say. “Well,” I falter. “…Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  Her head drops, then she mutters: “But I do.”

  I feel my face flush as I stumble over my words. “Well, it’s just too…too difficult, it’s…y’know, I just think it’d be the best for us, y’know, ’cos, ’cos it’s very difficult coping with this…mirror-imaging thing.”

  I know. Pathetic.

  All right, yes, I could have handled it a little better. But it’s never easy to avoid being trite in these situations because they are trite situations.

  She doesn’t say much during the rest of the meal. I can’t eat. So that forkful of lamb just sits on the plate. She drinks. She drinks a lot. Very fast. I offer her a lift home and we head, in silence, towards the car park.

  When we get to my car, she turns and fixes me with bleary intent; her head wobbling, loosened from her neck by the wine.

  “So, when did you start pretending?”

  I pretend not to understand the question. She totters forward and then catches herself. She straightens up, trying for an effect of dignity, as if the totter had never happened.

  “When…when did you start pretending,” she over-enunciates. “When did you start to be-gin ly-ing…that you liked me…last week? Three months ago? From day one?”

  “Don’t be silly. Jade, I—”

  “Tell me when!” She starts shouting in my face. “When?! WHEN?!”

  Suddenly, she gives me a slap. Across my face. Now this was not the first time I’d been hit by a woman, because my wife – ex-wife – once broke my nose in a tea-room in Bexhill. But this was the first time I’d been hit by a woman and half-expected it. Because if humans are divided into two sub-species, dumpers and dumpees, then I suspect Jade had always been the former. From her reaction in the restaurant, I sensed that she’d never been on the receiving end. Beautiful women rarely are. She was clearly very hurt and very raw.

  So the slap is not a surprise.

  The second one is, though. And the third, fourth and fifth. Now it’s a problem, she’s raining slaps on me faster than I can think, she’s screaming, she’s out of control, think, think, the slaps are getting faster and harder, I try to grab her hands and now she’s kicking, kicking my shins, once, twice, so I push her and crack, her head has hit the kerb!

  That’s how fast it happened, in a blink. I didn’t push her hard, I swear, I just pushed her away. I didn’t expect her to fall, but she dropped so fast. She didn’t even put her hands out to save herself, at least I don’t think she did. It was so quick, so fast, one push, then she’s on the ground, like there’s a bit missed out, like a bad edit.

  For a moment, she lies there, groaning, and the thought flashes across my mind that she might have fractured her skull. I bend down and pull her up into a sitting position, which is not what you’re supposed to do, I know, but I can’t think straight, I just want her to be OK.

  “My God, that was one hell of a clout, are you all right?”

  “I’m OK,” she mumbles.

  “You might have broken something.”

  “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

  “You could be concussed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I could take you up the hospital.”

  I look to see if there’s anyone else around, but the car park seems empty. Shakily, she pulls herself up on to her knees, her head slumped forward.

  “We should get you looked at.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m taking you up the hospital.”

  “No, it’s OK, you’ve done enough, thanks.”

  Oddly, I find the sarcasm reassuring, it suggests that she is going to be all right.

  “I…never meant for you to…I was just trying to stop you hitting me. I’m so sorry. Let me take you up the hospital, you can’t be too careful with bangs on the head.”

  “I said I’m fine.” Suddenly her voice has a metallic cut to it. “Just take me home…please.”

  So I did.

  Nothing more was said. She seemed OK. Silent but OK. I watched her as far as her front door. She went inside. The lights went on. I went home. That was it.

  When I got home the answerphone’s red light was flashing and, for some reason, I remember hoping that the message would be from my ex-wife. I pressed play.

  “It’s me, you old bastard, give me a ring, doesn’t matter how late, I’ll still be up.”

  It was Mac. He’s my oldest and best friend for reasons that I’ve never really been able to comprehend. We first met in the late 80s in a left-wing theatre group that toured the country performing agitprop musicals about capitalism that, for some reason, always involved juggling. Mac wrote the lyrics for the songs.

  “Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher,

  Wait until the people catch yer,

  Your crimes will come to haunt you.

  Hey, hey, Maggie, your time will come.

  Bye, bye, Maggie, imperialist scum

  Maggie, Maggie, Maggie

  Good-byyeeee.”

  That was one. Well, we were young and we didn’t embarrass easily. Mac still doesn’t. After a couple of years, I packed it in. Somehow we hadn’t managed to overthrow Mrs Thatcher and I was sick of waking up stiff-necked on someone’s floor. I started hankering after a few luxuries, like an income.

  But Mac keeps rolling along, perpetually joining socialist theatre groups until the inevitable happens and they fall out over money.

  I ring his number.

  “Hello,” answers a voice so Glasgow you can smell the sticky pub carpet.

  “Is that the HQ of the Scottish terror group Mac-Quaeda?”

  “Hey, about time, tosspot, where have you been?”

  “Oh…out.”

  “I was watching you earlier.”

  “Really, what was I doing?”

  “You were setting fire to your restaurant for the insurance. Then you were telling that wee girlie with the sick kiddie that you were ‘there for her’. The dialogue was ex-cre-ment-al. I couldn’t bear to listen to it.”

  “Yeh, well, I just say it, I don’t have to listen to it.”

  Down the line, I hear the tearing of a ring-pull.

  “So, are you still going out with the wee girlie actress?”

  “Um…as of tonight, no.”

  “She dumped you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I see…were there tears?”

  “Yeh, and bruises.”

  “Bruises?”

  “Long story, it’s all fine. Are you working?”

  “Aye. I’m touring with a musical about asbestosis.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, I’ve got some good news.”

  “Good ne— oh no, you’re not getting married again?”

  “This one’s the one.”

  “So were the last three.”

  “I want you to be best man.”

  “Fine. Can I use the same material?”

  “Everything except the anecdote about the Amsterdam transvestite and the Hoover.”

  We hadn’t been in contact for the best part of a year, so we had a good chat. We did all the old favourites.

  How the Labour Party was going down the toilet.

  How the England football team were a bunch of overpaid tossers.

  What pointless arseholes critics were.

  How the BBC was going down the toilet.

  How all comedians now had to be gay and/or Welsh.

  How there are no real footballers any more.

  How useless producers were.

  How useless directors were.

  How everything was now dominated by marketing.

  How unengaged young people had become.

  How Twitter was a form of masturbation.

  How Simon Cowell now owned everyone.

  How the Murdoch Empire owned everyone.

  How arrogant cyclists were.


  How various presenters should be taken out and shot.

  Once we had finished our playlist of topics, I told him the joke I’d just heard about the skeleton who walked into a pub and asked for a pint of lager and a mop, and then he told me a dirty joke about Superman, Catwoman and the Invisible Man, which I realised I knew just as he reached the punchline.

  Then we dredged through our list of mutual friends, skimming over their successes and relishing their setbacks. Then Mac spent fifteen minutes or so telling me how unbelievably fantastic his new woman was. Then he put me on the spot.

  “So why were there bruises?”

  “Eh?”

  “You and the wee girlie – when you broke up – why bruises?”

  “Oh, she had an accident, a fall, banged her head, it’s OK, she’s fine.”

  Then we did one more round of who should be shot and said goodnight.

  I love Mac. He never changes. His wives change but he’s always the same. Permanent. He’s more than a friend, he’s a geographical feature, like Arthur’s Seat. To my surprise, I find I have been chatting with Mac for nearly two hours and now I am gripped by this overpowering impulse.

  Her voice sounds foggy.

  “Hi,” I say, apologetically.

  “Je-sus, Kevin, what time is this to ring for Christ’s sa— Jesus, it’s quarter past two.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you pissed?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Bloody hell, Kevin, the main reason we got divorced was so you wouldn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to have stupid conversations.”

  “What makes you think this is going to be a stupid conversation?”

  “Experience.”

  There is the clatter of something being knocked over, followed by some swearing.

  “Mac’s getting married,” I say. She gives her throaty chuckle.

  “And this one’s ‘the one’?”

  “Oh yes.”

  More throaty chuckle. “Right. When’s the wedding?”

  “Two weeks’ time.”

  “Two weeks!”

  “The eleventh. He said you’ll be getting an invite.”

  “Right, the eleventh, yeh, I can do that. Will it be plus one?”

  “Dunno.” Should I ask? I had to. “Are…are you plus one then?”

  “Might be…what about you?”

  “No, no. I just became a minus one.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t give that ‘ah’, I hate that ‘ah’.”

  She laughs her full laugh, the one that sounds like a child being tickled.

  “I’m sorry, Kevin, but it is sort of funny. I saw you both being interviewed on that morning show. Your body language was hilarious. Was that sofa made of barbed wire?”

  She laughs some more and I find myself laughing as well. My God, how long since we did this?

  “Has Mac asked you to be his best man?”

  “But of course.”

  “Don’t do the Amsterdam stuff.”

  I must have chatted with Sandra for about twenty minutes and afterwards, as was often the case, I found that I felt calmer. I made myself a peppermint tea – rock-and-roll – and headed for bed.

  I felt sorry about how I’d handled things with Jade, but deep down I was relieved. That little knot in my stomach had gone missing. Work was probably going to be a little awkward, but work was work and everyone would be professional.

  As I settle down to sleep, my thoughts drift back to Sandra.

  Before I know it, I’m reliving the night I first set eyes on her.

  It’s August, 1994.

  Mac is leading me in through the door of a converted lighthouse (yes, that’s right, a lighthouse). It’s the last week of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and we are gatecrashing a party full of know-nothing students who have yet to crash into the shit-mountain that is life (Mac’s words, not mine).

  We’re both already very pissed and the problem with the lighthouse is that it is mostly steps: windy, uneven steps. As a result, Mac is ricocheting around the staircase as he tries to climb, spilling people’s drinks, and belligerently banging into stone walls.

  I, on the other hand, am amiably drunk and, I feel sure, only mildly impaired. I have found a niche on the ground floor and have wedged myself into a corner with a bottle of Riesling and a paper cup, and I am dispensing bon mots to luminous young women, all of whom (I can see) are entranced by me. I start quoting Camus. Then W. B. Yeats. Then Groucho Marx. How metropolitan I am. Met-ro-pol-it-an. I’m on fire tonight. On fire.

  Mac comes tumbling backwards down the stairs, giggling.

  “Whoops-a-fucking daisy,” he cries. “Don’t know what happened there.”

  He levers himself to his feet and lurches towards the young ladies I am in the process of fascinating.

  “Whoa! La-deez, form a queue,” he exclaims. “I only have the one cock.”

  The women scatter like startled deer.

  I remonstrate with Mac but all he can say is: “Heigh-ho, it’s off to pastures new.” Then he meanders away looking for a refill (he doesn’t like Riesling) while I lean against the wall and start to wonder how I will be getting home.

  And then I see her.

  Quite simply, one of the most beautiful women I have seen, floating, at the bottom of the stairwell, like an angel. An an-gel. That’s what she’s like. She’s like – I tell you who she’s like – she looks uncannily like Catherine Deneuve.

  I glide through the crowd towards her. She is talking to a young man in a leather jacket, but I can see he is boring her. As I arrive, they are talking about the plays of Racine, so I regale her with a few quotes from Phèdre. I have surprised her, so the advantage is mine.

  The young man in the leather jacket fails to realise that he is now wasting his time and insists on trying to chip in to our conversation – although most of what he says is boring stuff like “You’re spilling your drink, mate.”

  She, I can tell, is hanging on my every word. I am bewitching her. Now she is gazing at the floor, in an attempt to hide how attracted she is. At last, leather-jacket boy gets the hint and moves off. I step towards her, so that we are close, ve-ry close.

  I ask her if anyone has ever told her that she looks like Catherine Deneuve. She replies that they have. Well they are right, I tell her.

  “My name is Kevin,” I say, suavely. “Kevin Carver. I am an actor-slash-writer-slash-director.”

  She goes to tell me her name, but I interrupt her with a raffish wave of my hand.

  “No, no need to tell me, I already know who you are.”

  Of course, she is intrigued.

  “You,” I proclaim, “are the future Mrs Carver.”

  We talk some more. She is shy and needs some prising out of her shell, but I will take my time, because I am a craftsman. Her ambition is to work in theatre, so I am able to give her the benefit of my experience. In detail.

  But I don’t want to intimidate her, no, no, no, no, no. So I start telling jokes. Then I admire the shiny watch she is glancing at. It’s from her boyfriend, she says, but he is not here right now. Besides, he is her ex-boyfriend. I tell her again, because she doesn’t seem to have heard the joke-slash-truth.

  “He is your ex-boyfriend?” I reiterate.

  “Why do you say that?” she asks.

  “Because he just is,” I quip.

  The repartee carries on for a while, with me setting the pace. Suddenly, Mac looms into view.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Mrs Carver,” I inform him.

  He sniggers and rocks around a bit.

  “Be careful of this one,” he tells her, jabbing his forefinger in front of my nose, “because he is promiscuous.”

  “That’s not true,” I reassure her.

  “Yes, it is,” Mac persists. “He is so promiscuous that he’s got a cauliflower penis.”

  This is an old line of Mac’s and I can see that she is offended by his vulgarity, so I give him his marching order
s, and he totters away, via more walls. What a state to get himself in! I apologise to Mrs Carver and attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a very funny joke about an Irish labourer but apparently I have told her this joke some minutes earlier.

  This surprises me, but I don’t let it affect my stride. I start a discussion about children, to show my softer side, which I can tell is— hang on, leather-jacket-boy is back! What’s he doing here? He’s leading her away. What the— that’s not the— that’s, whoa, my head suddenly feels very light and the room is beginning to move and I – oh no – head for the door, the front door, where the fuck is the front door? What kind of moron holds a party in a lighthouse?! The front door! I’ve spotted the front door. I plough through the throng, buffeting and bouncing – oh God, I’ve got about ten seconds – out of my way – there’s that feeling in my throat – a matter of seconds – the door, I’ve made it, I’m through the door, the cold night air smacks me in the face and I am violently sick onto a gravel path.

  Oh God, I hate being sick. I can hear people laughing. There is stuff going up my nose. I hate myself.

  After several painful heaves, I am bent double, knees trembling and soaked through with sweat. My eyes are streaming and snot is hanging from my nose. And I am breathing deep, long and hard, like an old man struggling on a winter’s day.

  Then I hear a soft voice.

  “Here’s a glass of water.”

  I look up. A young woman with a pageboy haircut and NHS glasses is offering me the glass.

  “Thanks,” I rasp, before gulping it down. “What’s your name?”

  “Sandra,” she replies.

  And then she smiles. She actually smiles. Presented with a glass-eyed idiot, standing in his own puke, she smiles.

  Why on earth did she smile?

  What did she see?

  2

  The Visit

  Next morning, on the set, it feels like business as usual. Big men are carrying lights, prop-handlers are moving furniture and there is the babble of productive chaos.

  Nigel, the first – the chaos controller – is shouting down his phone at the third.

  “What do you mean Gavin’s learnt the wrong scenes? Why the fuck has he done that? Eh…? He’s not dyslexic, that’s just what he tells people when he’s frightened he’s going to get a bollocking.”