Episode 5: Rollercoaster

[MUSIC] [MUSIC] [MUSIC] [MUSIC] [MUSIC] [MUSIC] [MUSIC] [MUSIC] Also, there was plenty of distraction thanks to the presence of some people who definitely were not welcome. Not fans, not members of the general public, the location of the funeral did seem to have been successfully kept from them. But you couldn't keep it from the press. As I arrived, 20 minutes before the start time, Martina by the way had got their head of me, there were already 10 or 12 photographers shouting the names of anyone they recognized. Among the names I heard were Giselle, his first wife from many years back, a fashion designer, now living in Brazil, and his sister Rebecca, the mother of Frodo. The only one who really cooperated with the photographers was Mikey Fielding, the former footballer, one of Stevie's closest mates, who once punched him outside the ivy for commenting on the size of Fielding's nose. It was, as I looked at it now, incredibly long. Fielding was obligingly posing for the paparazzi when something happened which I would remember for a long time. Jack Solzbury, Stevie's notorious lawyer, appeared from the church yard, gliding between the headstones. He was the only person wearing no coat, just a magnificent tuxedo in a shirt, so clean and white to almost hurt your eyes to look at it. He reminded me of a creepier and a vagus casino. Even his bald head looked as if it had been polished. Despite the fact that he was twice the age of the photographers, his body language suggested he was about to swing at one of them. Instead, he walked up to one of the group and grabbed the camera from around his neck in a movement that was incredibly swift like a snake. The photographer started to protest. Jack Solzbury leaned in very, very close to his face and said something very quietly. Then he handed back the camera. The photographer put it back in his case and began to walk away. Every single other one of the paparazzi followed him in silence. Solzbury watched them go. And although I might be projecting, I felt like what I saw in his face was almost disappointment that it hadn't been more of a challenge. The service was a bit of a weird hybrid of religious and not. There was a vicar, but he seemed to have been briefed to go easy on the god stuff. We did sing one old-school hymn, Bread of Heaven, Apparently Favorite of Stevie's, although someone sniggered when the vicar said that. But the rest of the music was generic, sad stuff, played by a string quartet in the organ loft. And at the end, you can't always get what you want by the rolling stones. This again was something he'd apparently wanted, I'll have that at my funeral, at an interview. Of course, when people say things like that, they normally aren't imaginative coming anytime soon. The vicar, gesturing at the coffin, did do a bit about how God would now accept Stevie Chase into his eternal kingdom, but I wasn't sure if even he totally believed it. Then, I learned from the service sheet, they were taking him to the crematorium, where selected friends and family would say a final goodbye before he disappeared into the furnace. But that wasn't how they phrased it. Everyone was then welcomed at the Paragon Hotel for refreshments. Glancing back one last time on the way out of the church, I found it extremely strange to think that Stevie Chase was in that beautiful wooden box covered in flowers, and strange as still to think about what would happen to him next. Outside the early afternoon seemed weirdly bright like when you come out of the cinema. There was a general drift of us less distinguished guests towards the Paragon, which was only a short walk down the hill. I blended into that crowd. Once more, I was confident nobody was paying me any attention. Around me was the slightly over-eager chatter of relief people released from tension and formality. I heard a wild, half-familiar laugh, and looked over my shoulders to see Rhapsody Britain in conversation with someone I didn't know. She put a gloved hand over her mouth straight away, but there were other people laughing as we all drifted into the hotel. The vibe was almost like the beginning of a party. Tonight, of course, I would be at a party. In only two or three hours, I'd have to head back to the station. As I milled around the function room exchanging a wood here or there, but mostly like a phantom, that thought started to film me with a certain panic. I had to have something to show from my trip here, beyond the very nice, admittedly, ham and salad sandwiches, which I fell gratefully on as soon as they were laid out. I had to feel like I'd learned something. Even as I was starting to feel like I'd made a stupid error coming here, overreached myself, even as those treacherous voices were kicking in again, there was a commotion around the doors of the function room. I paused in the act of taking a fourth sandwich. Two men were exchanging harsh words, others were buzzing around and trying to make peace. I recognised Mikey Fielding in his weird non-funeral like blue pinstriped suit and Frodo, Stevie's nephew, in even more casual gear, a silver sparkly jacket in jeans. You need to learn a bit of respect, pal, walking around here with your fucking headphones. I am not taking lessons in respect from a guy who called my uncle an asshole, like, under a year ago. Yeah, asshole. We're not in America, mate. Oh, and you're not even American. You're from fucking Oxford University. Cambridge University. Oh, yeah. Well, I do apologize to William Shakespeare. What? That doesn't even make any sense. Shakespeare didn't go to university, as far as we know. Forgive me if I've been living in the real world instead of using the mum's money to piss about pretending to be a DJ. I never took a penny off my mum. Oh, a mum. Jesus. How? I'm sorry. You didn't get what you wanted from the will. That's your shit, not mine. I, look, you just listen to me, Frankie Boy. My name is Frodo. For a few moments, it actually looks like they were going to come to blows these ridiculous combatants. Mikey, a former athlete dressed like a gangster, and a much younger Frodo with his headphones and pinky orange hair. A few people started making unconvincing efforts to pull them apart, hands tentatively laid on arms. A little bit of, hey, hey, all right. Then there he was again. Jack Solsbury. He moved through the crowd like a knife. Again, he didn't even have to speak. His appearance had the effect of a headmaster descending on a group of naughty school kids. The body language of both Mikey and Frodo changed at once. Jack Solsbury said something I couldn't hear. Like the photographers earlier, Mikey and Frodo went away meatly. The incident was over almost before it had begun. Solsbury did one of his almost imperceptible eyebrow raises. He was gone. But I'd seen the whole thing. I'd tracked him all the way through the crowd. And I was almost certain it had been when Frodo mentioned the will that Jack had started to move in. I didn't think it was the threat of a punch-up that had made him intervene. It was the way the conversation was going. There had been something he wanted to shut down. I had to know more. I know I'm like a stuck record with this. Every episode ends with me needing to know more. But there was so much to know. And this is what I do while I did. It hit me. I cannot go back to London, go to the party. I have to be here. If I don't stay the night here, it was a waste of time having come in the first place. If I still think I'm a contender, if I have enough about me to believe in myself, I've got to be here. Kalam would get it. He might be pissed off about the party. But he'd get it. Wouldn't he? Murder of a famous bastard, episode 5, was written by Mark Watson and performed by Mark Watson, John Davies, Stefan LeCandler, Deleth Jones, Felicity Ward, Matt Rire and John Luke Roberts. Music by Matt Rire, artwork by Hymen Lee. It was an impatient production and the editor was Richard Hughes. You can join the discussion on Blue Sky and Discord. Soon you'll be able to sign up to a Patreon. If you're wondering how I know all this and who I am, by the way, I'm afraid that information is classified for now.