The Vulture

by Stephanie Whitelaw

The mould patch had worsened, a trail of black dots running from the top corner of the bedroom and disappearing behind the chest of drawers. I’d been staring at it for so long the pattern was flickering, resembling a mass of ants commandeering the walls.

“We need to push the landlord on this damp,” I called to Ambra.

She walked into our bedroom dressed in the turquoise tunic and trousers uniform of the Covent Garden day spa, bleached hair pulled into a tight bun. I sat up against the pillows, taking the mug of tea she held out for me.

“Good luck with that,” she said. “Every call I make goes to voicemail. Don’t you have a shift this morning?”

I blew on my tea. “Linda called when you were in the shower. Cafe’s shut because of the snow. Toilet pipes frozen apparently.”

“Jesus, this country goes into meltdown at the slightest change in weather.”

“Well, it’s a bonus for me. I was hoping you’d be off too and we could spend the day in bed.”

Ambra walked to the wardrobe, pulling out her battered chocolate leather handbag.

“Unlikely. We’ll be overrun with women using their Christmas vouchers for a sauna to escape the cold. At least you’ll have some time to write.”

I nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

Ambra shrugged on her parka and bent down to press her lips against mine, enveloping me in the jasmine and vanilla scent of the moisturiser she got discounted at work. “Enjoy your snow day.”

“Thanks. See you later on.”

I finished my tea, leaving the mug on my bedside table, slid out of bed and sat down at our desk. One of Ambra’s knit wool cardigans was laid over the back of the chair and I pulled it on over my pyjamas, then pressed play on the CD player; the sultry sounds of Massive Attack filling the room. I smiled, remembered my self-conscious attempt at a striptease to it last night, unable to get past the buttons on my blouse without laughing. In the end, Ambra had dragged me under the covers and finished undressing me there.

I turned my attention to the spread of newspapers littering the top of the desk, scanning through headlines announcing Bush’s call for a surge of troops in Iraq. At university, I’d written an editorial for the student paper about how our protest marches had fallen on deaf ears. It was picked up by The Guardian and had been the validation I needed that journalism was the right career choice; that I had a voice people wanted to hear. But it was four years since then, and trying to make a steady income from freelance writing was proving harder than I’d ever anticipated.

Throwing the paper to the floor, I picked up the interview notes I’d conducted with Ambra and her family members, detailing their experiences during the Kosovo War and assimilation into life in the UK. My pitch for a long form piece had so far been rejected by all of the broadsheets I’d had luck with in the past, but I hadn’t told Ambra. It felt like doing so would be akin to admitting people didn’t want to know her story.

My stomach growled and I used it as an excuse to get up from the desk. I undressed in the bathroom, running the shower as hot as it would go, knowing it would only last a minute before turning lukewarm, another issue we’d been badgering the landlord about. While I lathered my hair, I thought about the conversation I’d had with Amir at The Sun last week. He’d suggested I use my proximity to the celebrities living in this corner of north London to my advantage, capturing revealing stories and photos for the tabloids. I’d given my usual argument: that the final hunt to the death of Princess Diana, readers gorging on the entrails of her life in the run up to it, was a disgrace everyone should learn from, a pivotal moment for the press and consumers alike. He’d told me photographers at the time were offered half a million for a decent shot of her and with that kind of bounty, it wasn’t hard to understand how ethics became hazy. He concluded that even after all that had happened, the public’s appetite for gossip hadn’t changed, and while it remained, the tabloids would keep feeding it.

Later that night, I’d posed his proposition to Ambra. Would it be so wrong if I tried to get a piece of a very lucrative pie? The disgust on her face was a sight I never wanted to see again. She couldn’t believe I’d consider violating people’s privacy, that doing so would make her question who I was at my core. I’d shut the argument down then, disliking the squirming sickness I’d felt at her words, at the knowledge that she didn’t actually know the greyer areas of my morality, and if she did, it would be the end of us.

Out of the shower, I dressed quickly, putting leggings on beneath my ripped jeans and an old bottle green cashmere jumper of Dad’s, then blasted a hairdryer over my hair, shaking it upside down for volume and flicked the corners of my eyes with jet black eyeliner, before pulling on a leopard print coat. Before heading out of the door, I grabbed my Canon camera which was sitting on the kitchen side and pushed it into my messenger bag. Maybe there’d be some picturesque snow scenes to capture; the view from the top of Hampstead Heath would be spectacular in this light.

Outside, the roads were being gritted with salt but the pavements were still thick and crunchy underfoot, the top layer unspoiled as the snowfall persisted. A few doors down from our basement flat, I stopped at a greasy spoon and ordered a bacon sandwich spread thickly with butter and drenched in ketchup, devouring it sloppily as I strolled up from Camden, winding past the Georgian townhouses of Primrose Hill, looking like bright slabs of ice cream against the white frosted streets.

Reaching Hampstead Heath, I walked to the top of the hill, catching my breath before pulling my camera out. I’d bought it from a journalist friend who was upgrading hers and she’d taken me through the basics. I lifted it to my face, focusing on a couple sitting on a bench in the distance to test the reach of the lens. Zooming in on the resulting picture revealed a grainy composition, the features of their faces unclear. I walked slowly down the hill, trying out shots of different people in the park until I had a good idea of how close I needed to be for a clear image.

The day pressed into early afternoon and the cold was settling into my bones, my Gazelles damp through to my socks, completely impractical for this weather. I put the camera away and headed back towards Camden. As I drew nearer to home, the thought of the cold, empty rooms with stacks of notes I hadn’t turned into anything successful, made me pause. A drink before heading in would help, sometimes I even wrote better as a result. I turned into the high street and opened the door to The Artesian Well.

Ambra and I usually drank there on packed weekend evenings, so it was a welcome change to see it emptier and to feel the immediate warmth emanating from the fire burning in the grate at the centre of the wood-panelled space. I shifted my coat off and took a seat at the bar, scanning the photographs lining the wall, a series of famous faces who’d drunk there dating from the sixties.

A barman I’d met a few times came over. Eddie, I think.

“Bacardi and Coke, right?”

I smiled. “Well-remembered. Thanks.”

He turned to make the drink and I looked around the pub, my hands clutching the edges of my stool when I saw who was sitting a few tables away.

Trilby wearing Ricky Jameson, charismatic frontman of NME’s band of the year. Having an argument with the supermodel he was famously dating. One name: Rumi, her Dior campaign was everywhere. The two of them sitting there would make an incredible picture. The warm firelight flickering across their faces as they leant towards one another, tension palpable in the tight set of their shoulders and grasp of his hand against her thigh. I could see it in the gossip section of Heat magazine, accompanied by a speculative column: Ricky and Rumi on the rocks? I reached for my bag. Would it hurt to take a photograph and decide later about using it? But if I was caught taking it inside, I’d be banned.

“Did you want to start a tab?” Eddie broke my train of thought, putting my drink in front of me.

“No, I’m good, thanks.” I pulled three pounds from my purse and handed it to him.

I turned back to Ricky and Rumi. She was standing with her coat on, looking ready to leave. My disappointment was tinged with relief. I hadn’t done it; I wasn’t that person. I could leave here with my integrity intact.

I took a long swig of the sweet drink and settled more comfortably into the stool.

“Got a light, mate? Bitch ran off with my Zippo.”

My heart thundered in my chest at the familiarity of the voice. Gravel laced with honey, NME had called it. Ricky was leaning next to me, looking at Eddie.

I quickly pulled a lighter from my jeans pocket and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

He looked at down at me, pupils so wide they almost eclipsed the green surrounding them.

“Thanks. You want one?” he held out a pack of Marlboro Lights.

“Yeah, thanks.” I had some in my bag but they were running low.

He handed back the lighter and inhaled deeply on his cigarette, surveying me. “Thought for a second you were Amy.”

I swallowed hard. “Amy Winehouse?”

“Yeah, with the hair and petite but tough thing you’ve got going on.”

Was he flirting? It was hard to tell, but he should probably be set straight.

“My girlfriend said that when we met.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have guessed you were -”

“What? We all look the same, do we?”

“No, course not. Sorry. Too many of these.” He waved his pint in the air and some of it sloshed across the bar. “Ignore me. At least I know you’re not going to try and shag me in the loos.”

“That happen a lot?”

“You’d be surprised. People want a story to tell.”

“Crazy to think they’d go that far. Does it bother you?” I asked.

“I’m sure I’ll be entertaining the nursing home with tales of the my youthful escapades one day, don’t worry.”

I chuckled and he looked like he appreciated it, smiling down at his drink.

“So, it would be disingenuous of me to pretend I don’t know who you are,” I said.

He looked back at me. “Are we talking mega fan or you think I’m a complete prick?”

“I wouldn’t say mega fan but I saw you play at The Roundhouse and it was a great time. Jury’s out on the prick,” I said.

“Ouch.”

“I’m joking. You seem very normal. As normal as it is to be sitting around getting pissed on a weekday afternoon.”

“Could say the same to you. No job?”

“I work in a cafe and write a bit.”

He frowned. “What sort of thing?”

“Fiction,” I lied. I could have told him I was a political journalist, interested in foreign affairs. But even the hint of me being press would be enough to make him run a mile.

He nodded like that pleased him. “Writing came before music for me really. Always loved poetry.”

I nodded. “Your lyrics do have that poetic edge. Like the chorus of ‘The Well.’ If you throw your wishes into stone, I’ll catch them first. If all you’re searching for is home, I’ll be waiting there, with cider and a pocket full of Starburst.”

“And you say you’re not a mega fan,” he said, shoving me lightly on the arm. I felt my cheeks flush, wondering if I’d revealed too many of my cards. “Hey, I’m only teasing,” he continued. “It’s nice to know people actually care about the stuff I’m writing, not just who I’m dating, you know?”

“I can imagine,” I said, forcing back my desire to ask what he and Rumi had been fighting about.

“You know that song’s written about this place?”

“Really? I thought it was about a wishing well.”

“There’s an actual artesian well out the back of here.”

“Oh?” I asked, curious to hear what else he’d reveal.

He pushed away from the bar. “Come and see.”

I pulled my coat back on and followed him into the garden, past a row of wooden benches to an area hidden from the view of the pub by the overhanging branches of a sycamore tree. He kicked at the snow with his doc marten boot until a ring of stones appeared, a wide tube running beneath them.

“It’s special, see, because the water is forced up from underground without pumping. Created by monks or some shit; there are quite a few across London.”

I bent down towards it, resisting the urge to laugh at how unexpected this information was, how far from newsworthy. “You’d never know this bit was back here,” I commented.

“It’s been a handy spot to hide on busy nights sometimes.”

“Must be tough,” I said, tentatively. “People watching you all the time.”

“Yeah, I know I’m lucky, but it’s tough when everyone wants some piece of you. Just because I’m a musician doesn’t make everyone entitled to know my business.”

I nodded. “My girlfriend says the same. She went through a lot as a child, so to her, it’s madness that people are hungry for news on celebrities when there’s so much happening in the world that needs attention.”

“Sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.” He patted his pockets, a restlessness to his movements that was becoming more apparent the longer we spoke. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you -” he paused, a question in his expression.

“Kate.”

“See you around; thanks for the light.”

He turned and swept back up the garden, heading into the bathroom by the back door. I took it as my cue to leave.

I was halfway home when I realised I’d left my bag at the pub. I rushed back, spotting it on the floor next to the stool where I’d been sitting, now filled by a middle aged man.

“Excuse me,” I said, reaching down to grab it.

“No bother, love,” he said, then continued the conversation he was having with Eddie. “So there’s an ambulance coming now?”

“Yeah. Sal’s in the bathroom with him, got him into the recovery position. Hit his head when he fell, so has to be checked over.”

“Bet he was high as a kite in there.”

Eddie shrugged. “Did you want another drink?” he asked me as I stood upright, one hand clutching the camera inside my bag.

I forced a smile. “No, I’m good. Thanks though.”

Outside, the day was darkening into late afternoon, this area unusually quiet as I lingered at the entrance to the pub. A couple of men stood a metre away, deep in conversation, one holding a bulldog on a lead while it urinated across the pavement. The blue lights of the ambulance arrived quickly, pooling against the white streets as it made its approach, two paramedics bursting from the back seconds after it had stopped, carrying medical bags, a stretcher.

I leant against the wall and lit another cigarette to calm the jittery excitement coursing through me while I waited. It seemed unbelievable that nobody had been tipped off to both the presence of Ricky and the state he was in. I’d so often seen this place swarmed with paparazzi as night fell, cameras hovering in front of their faces the minute the bell for last orders rang. I flicked my cigarette to the floor as the two men re-entered the pub, their dog leaving behind patches of yellow snow. Then, from the door, the paramedics re-emerged, Ricky sprawled out semi-conscious on the stretcher, his brow pallid and clammy, fingerprints of blood smeared across his forehead as though he’d just achieved his first kill and had marked himself in victory. I pulled the camera from my bag, slung the strap across my neck and stepped forwards. It was no use lying to myself anymore; this was what I’d been waiting for.

Ricky turned his head towards me as I took another step, his half lidded eyes catching mine. I took the shot. Another step forwards and clicked again, knowing I was so close every mark on his face would be rendered with perfect clarity. He said something, spittle lining the corners of his mouth, dried blood crusting his nose. I zoomed closer. Took another shot. Until I was close enough to hear him.

“Parasite,” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

I took several more as he was hauled into the ambulance and the door was slammed behind him. Then I slipped the camera back into my bag as it sped off, cars swerving to the side of the road to let it through.

Parasite, he’d said. Would that be a word Ambra would use when she saw the photos? Vulture, most likely. It would be best if I didn’t show her until I knew for certain they’d be printed. Then, when the money poured in, she’d understand. She’d have to, because I couldn’t deny the pleasurable shiver rippling down my spine as I’d taken those pictures, the buzz still coursing through me as I started walking home. I knew for certain it wouldn’t be the only time I’d be out here, on the hunt with the rest of them.