Bright Lies: A Chilling Psychological Thriller Page 9

  “Can we do that?” Jack asks. “Seeing as we’re not renting or anything.”

  “Yeah, we can. We’re in occupation,” Thor says. “No-one can prove we broke in. They defo can’t once Jamie’s changed the locks.”

  “You want me to drill out the barrel and fit another Yale? Or something better?”

  “Something better. Turn it into Fort Knox, mate,” Thor says.

  Jamie sets to work with his drill and screwdrivers.

  “We’re not sleeping here tonight, are we?” Jack asks. “There’s no furniture apart from that desk.” He points to the mezzanine, where they’ve found a couple of sticks.

  “I’d noticed.” Thor sounds relaxed. “We’ll kip on the floor back home and move in tomorrow. Then we’ll go dumpster diving for gear. Amazing what you find in skips, especially near posh houses. Carpets and all sorts.”

  It takes a full day to move in. In the end, it’s just the two of them: Jack and Thor. Vicki is offered floor space in Thor’s sister’s bedroom.

  Their housewarming celebration is a shared spliff. It’s one of the reasons why Jack hangs out with Thor; they both prefer weed to booze. Still, Jack has decided to leave in a week or so. He’ll hit the road again and return to the festivals.

  He’s drifting and he knows it. A levels and university are a fading dream from the past, but he loves the music scene. Unlike Thor, he doesn’t need to settle down yet. He senses Thor will seek more luxurious accommodation soon, anyway; being apart from Vicki isn’t ideal.

  Jack is even more convinced when, after a night sleeping on cushions, Thor says he’s off to the Jobcentre.

  “I need steady work now a baby’s on the way.”

  “Mind if I borrow your guitar?” Jack asks.

  “Help yourself.”

  Jack isn’t the best, but he’s learned a few chords from Thor. He heads for a busy shopping street, and pitches up by a bank, guitar case open in front of him.

  He needs money and this is the quickest way to get it, despite his disdain for Elvis Presley. His baritone suits the songs and he’s built up a repertoire. Starting with Heartbreak Hotel, he manages half an hour without a repeat.

  He’s a hit with the older shoppers. Like Ken, they were brought up in a world where Elvis was a god, never mind the King. Although they’re careful with their pennies, Jack collects six pounds in small change before he sees police approaching.

  He’d expected that. Jack stows the guitar in its case and follows signs to the railway station. Once he’s sure they’re not trailing him, he stops in an underpass and sets up again.

  A bearded, middle-aged fellow stops to listen to Heartbreak Hotel. He places a five-pound note in the case.

  “Thanks.” Only a slight twitch of his lips betrays Jack’s surprise.

  “You’re welcome. Let’s hear another.”

  Jack chooses Return To Sender, clocking the Armani jeans, open-necked shirt and gold sovereign pendant. The guy’s got money.

  The number finishes. Jack pauses for breath.

  “Nice work. Want to earn another twenty? Easy cash. I own a club in Digbeth, five minutes from here,” he points in the direction of the printworks, “and we’re hosting an Elvis competition tonight.”

  “Are you saying I’ll win twenty quid?”

  “I can’t say if you’ll win. You don’t look much like Elvis―”

  Jack interrupts. “I’ve heard that a lot.”

  “―but I’ll pay you anyway. The singers who usually turn up are rubbish. You do the best Elvis covers I’ve heard.”

  “When is it?”

  “Tonight, eight o’clock.”

  It takes Jack no more than a second to agree. “Okay.”

  The guy smiles. He has perfect white teeth, no doubt expensive too. “That’s grand. I’m Oli.”

  “Jack.”

  Oli says ruefully, “If I’m honest, Jack, I can't stand Elvis. But I have to whore out my club to make money.”

  “I can't stand Elvis either,” Jack replies, “but I have to whore out my voice to make money.”

  Oli laughs. “Stick with me, Jack. We're going to get on.”

  Chapter 21 June 2016 – Jack

  Jack has been to nightclubs a grand total of twice, both times with fake ID. He still doesn’t have real ID, as he isn’t a student and doesn’t have a passport. As far as he knows, nobody in his family has ever been abroad. Ken wouldn’t waste cash on a trip to Spain when Weston-super-Mare is an hour on the bus.

  The Bobowlers is a disappointment. Thor has explained it’s a dialect word: in the West Midlands, a bobowler is a moth. Jack expects a stylish establishment, posher than the meat markets he’s visited in Bristol. Instead, the Bobowlers is a plain, tatty brick building close to the printworks where he’s squatting. You turn two corners, and there it is. If it weren’t for the bubblegum pink door and neon sign above, he’d imagine it was a warehouse.

  It’s 7.30pm. He’s half an hour early, as agreed. When he rings the bell, the door opens to a crack. A broad-shouldered youth dressed in black, at least a head taller, eyes him up and down.

  “Come back at eight, mate. Twelve pounds unless you got an advance ticket.”

  “Oli promised me twenty quid. He didn’t say anything about an entrance fee.”

  The youth’s expression is dubious. “Are you competing? You don’t look anything like Elvis.”

  Jack wants to groan. Instead, he imagines a backing track and begins to sing Heartbreak Hotel.

  “All right. I’ve heard enough.” The door opens after the first verse, with a bellow of, “Cassie! It’s another one for you.”

  A tall girl, her arms draped with a pile of red and white nylon, sashays forward. She’s dressed for the occasion in a full-skirted black dress adorned with cherries. Her raven curls are tied back with a crimson scarf, her lips bright with matching lipstick.

  “Here,” she thrusts a bundle of shiny fabric at him, “Get this on. Gents are over there.”

  Like the club’s exterior, its toilets are functional. Urinals, sinks and cubicles are fixed to whitewashed walls. The floor is concrete. There is a single small mirror, in front of which three competitors are plastering their faces with orange make-up. One of them, commendably black-haired and sideburned, looks up at Jack’s approach.

  “You don’t l―”

  “I know.” Jack strips down to his underwear. The flared jumpsuit crackles with electricity, delivering a couple of shocks as he dons it. It’s too wide and long, flapping around his chest and ankles.

  “Here, have a few safety pins,” the friendly Presley clone says, “and a carrier bag for your bits.”

  “Thanks.” Jack adjusts the hems so he can walk without tripping.

  “Haven’t seen you on the circuit before. I’m Trevor.”

  “Jack.”

  “You ought to do something about your hair. Grecian 2000 is good.”

  “I’ll remember for next time.”

  Trevor is wearing a black and gold Lurex suit and platform shoes. The ensemble looks professional rather than a cheap Chinese knock-off. “Want a beer?” he asks.

  Jack shrugs. “I’ll join you for a lemonade.”

  “No alcohol before your performance? Very wise.”

  They wander to the bar, which is set back from the dancefloor, surrounded by clusters of tables and chairs. There is a spotlit stage at the other end, where a band are setting up. Jack can see that the low lights elsewhere flatter the club’s shabby red paintwork and grubby carpet.

  A pint of Carling and a lemonade cost Trevor seven pounds. Jack blanches as he realises the next round will be his.

  Trevor notices. “Don’t feel you need to buy me one, son. It’s all a bit of fun, isn’t it? For a good cause.”

  They sit at a table with a pair of other competitors. All of them, Jack notes, are rather older than him.

  “Frank and Eric,” Trevor says.

  “Nice to see a young face,” Frank says, echoing, “especially supporting a good cause
.”

  Cassie taps Jack’s shoulder. “You’re number five,” she says. “After Black Elvis. Any questions, just ask me or Liv over there.” She points to a blonde girl at a nearby table. Liv is guarding a bottle of wine and two glasses. She’s fitting in with Cassie’s fifties vibe, in a gingham top and pink pedal pushers.

  “Eight o’clock. It’s kicking off now,” Trevor says, as Cassie joins Liv and pours herself a glass.

  A stream of punters spills into the bar and onto the dancefloor. The band strike up a medley of Elvis hits.

  “Ray and the Ravers,” Trevor explains.

  Neither the paying public nor the band are in the first flush of youth. The red-bearded singer wears a leather trilby, no doubt to hide a bald patch. It sits oddly with his teddy boy suit, a bright turquoise with sharp black lapels.

  Ray does a decent job. Listening closely, Jack thinks he’s struggling with the lowest notes. He’s probably a natural tenor.

  The Ravers finish with a rendition of It’s Now or Never. Trevor nudges Jack, and stands up. “I’m on first.”

  Oli steps onto the stage and takes the singer’s microphone. “That was Ray and the Ravers. Give them a big hand.”

  The audience obliges with whoops and cheers.

  “Thanks for coming along tonight to raise money for the children’s hospice. We haven’t seen the last of Ray, because he’s our compere for the evening, and the Ravers our backing band. Let’s hear it for them again.”

  There’s a ripple of polite clapping, before Ray retrieves his mic. “Hello, Birmingham,” he announces in a broad local accent. “Introducing the Ravers tonight, we have… Eddie Ecstasy!”

  The drummer beats out a frenzied rhythm for ten seconds.

  Ray waits a moment to let the audience show their appreciation before asking bass player Pete Paranoid and lead guitar Jazzman John to display their skills.

  “And I’m Ray!” he shouts, to more cheers. “Who else do you want to see on stage?”

  “Elvis!” The audience yells as one.

  “I’ve got the next best thing. It’s Trevor Harper from Lower Gornal.”

  There’s a rousing chant of “Trevor, Trevor, Trevor,” as he takes the stage, Lurex glittering in the spotlight.

  “What are you singing for us, Trevor?” Ray asks.

  “Love Me Tender,” Trevor replies.

  The audience hollers its approval as the band start to play.

  Trevor murders it.

  He has the moves off pat, the clothes, hair and sideburns, but he just can’t sing. Jack gawps at him, unsure whether to be embarrassed for his new friend or merely sympathetic. As Trevor finishes, he roars, “Yeah!” in the hope that others will join in.

  He needn’t have worried. Every singer is greeted with rapturous applause, although they’re uniformly terrible.

  Nicky the Black Elvis from Edgbaston begins Blue Suede Shoes. Jack glances over at Cassie and Liv. Their expressions are bored.

  Cassie catches his eye. ‘You’re next,’ she mouths.

  Jack sidles up to the stage, jumping onto it as Nicky makes his exit.

  “Next up, a foreigner. Jack Dibble from Bristol,” Ray announces.

  “Jack Biddle.”

  Nobody hears the correction, because Ray hasn’t let go of the microphone yet.

  Jack reaches for it, clocking Cassie’s surprised face as he tells the Ravers to play Heartbreak Hotel. She still wears a look of astonishment when he finishes three minutes later. As he returns to the vicinity of the bar, she beckons him over.

  “Sit down.” Cassie pats the unused chair next to her. “You were actually good.”

  “Thanks. Are you an Elvis fan?”

  Her scorn is obvious. “No way. Liv and I were roped in as event assistants. We just finished A levels.”

  Liv yawns. “There must be an easier way to earn money.”

  “There is. I’m going to be an events organiser during my gap year. I can do a better job than this.” Cassie sweeps her arm around disdainfully.

  Oli appears behind Cassie. He places a hand on her shoulder. “Great job, Jack. Want a drink? On the house.”

  About to ask for lemonade, Jack spots Cassie’s piercing stare. “A bottle of wine, please.”

  “Thanks,” Cassie says as the club owner goes to the bar.

  After that, the acts blend into the background as Jack savours the unfamiliar pleasure of impressing the girls. Both Cassie and Liv seem intrigued that he’s worked at Glastonbury and lives in a squat.

  They scream with the audience when Oli proclaims Nicky the winner, with Jack in second place. Oli keeps his word, handing Jack a twenty-pound note.

  “Don’t spend it all at once,” Cassie advises.

  Oli winks at her. “Coming back with me tonight, bab?”

  “No.” She drains her glass, gets up and puts her arms around Jack. “I’m going back to Jack’s.”

  That’s news to him, but he doesn’t argue.

  Oli takes it in good part. “Jack, pop round tomorrow at three. I’ll have some work for you.”

  Briefly, Jack wonders whether the work will be legal. He doesn’t want to take too many risks in a strange city or end up in a job serving alcohol. There’s no harm in finding out. He nods. “See you tomorrow.”

  Moments later, Cassie has gripped his hand and is leading him outside. He’s still wearing the jumpsuit, which is overheated and itching at the crotch. In his other hand, he clutches his carrier bag.

  “You got me out of a spot there,” she says.

  “You don’t want to come back with me after all?” He tries to keep the regret from his voice.

  “What gave you that idea? Of course I do. You’re proof I haven’t wasted my evening.” She draws him into a satisfying kiss.

  A niggling worry tugs at him. “I have a room-mate,” he tells her.

  “So?”

  “There’s no privacy.” He and Thor have camped out on the mezzanine floor, which appears to be rat-free. They found a desk and chair there and dragged a mattress and cushions up the stepladder. Thor would probably give up the mattress, but he’s unlikely to agree to walk the streets while Jack and Cassie enjoy themselves.

  “Boy or girl?” Cassie asks.

  “Boy.”

  Cassie sighs. She takes an iPhone from her messenger bag. “Come back to mine? I’ll get an Uber.”

  The journey, to a suburb rather like Sneyd Park, takes twenty minutes. Jack is hardly aware of the urban landscape through which they pass. Cassie treats the cab ride as an opportunity for extended foreplay.

  They arrive at a huge, half-timbered house fronted by a large lawn cut to resemble velvet. Cassie puts a finger to her lips. Unlocking the front door, she leads him on tiptoe up a dark wood, carpeted staircase.

  Her room is on the second floor, in the eaves. The slanting walls are painted jet-black, but it’s too spacious to be claustrophobic.

  Cassie notices him looking around. “Never been in a girl’s room before?” she asks sharply.

  “Sorry. Not one like this.” He returns his attention to her, kissing her again.

  Somewhere downstairs, a baby cries. “Not mine,” Cassie says.

  She reaches into her bag and produces a packet of Durex. “Here, use one of these. They’re ribbed for my pleasure.” She laughs.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t undress yet. Just watch.” She unwraps herself slowly, like a birthday present.

  Jack can’t take his eyes off her. He’s used to a quick fumble in a tent, almost fully clothed. “You’re beautiful,” he gasps.

  She smiles, and he’s relieved he said the right thing.

  Once she’s naked, Cassie unzips the horrible nylon jumpsuit. Together, they ease off his clothes. Finally, he drowns in the intoxicating sensation of her skin against his.

  Chapter 22 August 2016 - Jack

  To Jack’s surprise, he’s spent six weeks in Birmingham. Cassie has played a big part in this. They can’t get enough of each other’s company. S
he even stayed overnight at the printworks when Thor took Vicki away to see relatives.

  Thor remains in residence. Oli has given casual jobs at the Bobowlers to both men: door security for Thor and cleaning for Jack. They’re paid either cash in hand, or in weed. Once Thor patched up his van, they easily found gardening work too. In Four Oaks, where Cassie lives, the houses sit in huge plots. Grass grows quickly over the summer: you’ve barely made it to the end of the lawn than it’s time to take the mower back where you started.

  All good things come to an end, however.

  “You’re going to work in a prison?” Jack asks. “Won’t that involve lifestyle changes? Like giving up weed?”

  Thor grins. “There’s more inside than out, apparently. I’m looking forward to finding it.”

  With regular employment, Thor can rent a flat and live with Vicki. He has no intention of going back to the Bobowlers to tell Oli he’s leaving. Jack has the unhappy task of breaking the news.

  Oli now has just one man on the door for Friday night. He takes it well, considering it’s an hour before the club opens.

  “You’ll have to do door duty,” he tells Jack. “Jodie – can you get something black from the lost property?”

  Jack considers asking Oli for more cash and less weed in future, but decides this isn’t the right moment. He smiles hopefully at Jodie.

  She’s a redhead with attitude. Jodie and Oli go back a long way, although as far as Jack knows, they were never partners. Her job is supposed to be selling tickets as the clubbers enter, but like everyone else, she runs around at Oli’s bidding.

  She produces suitable garments in record time, then sneaks outside to spark up. Jack finds her there when he’s donned the over-large trousers and T-shirt. She’s chatting to Sam, the regular doorman, an amiable giant.

  Drawing on her cigarette, Jodie takes a long, cool look at Jack. “You’re a bit short for security, aren’t you?”

  “I’m five foot ten.” He has finally reached an adult height, although he suffers from the contrast with Sam, who looms over everyone.

  “Any use in a fight, though?” Jodie asks.

  “Useful enough.” Jack flexes his biceps. He’s been working out, thanks to another of Thor’s tips. They both joined a cheap gym nearby to get access to showers.