The Vanity Game Read Online Free PDF

brain, none staying long enough for me to formulate a plan, every train of thought interrupted by the deafening voice: oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…
    I think I might be sick. Krystal is scrunching her face up as if she's going to cry, but no tears or sound comes out, thankfully. I imagine what the tabloids will say. This is Bad Shit, no lie.
    I could help her, I could call an ambulance and she might make it. But if she recovers what will she do to me? She'll have me over a barrel good and proper. And what if she dies anyway? Then I'll have alerted the hospital, and no doubt the Old Bill, to the thing … what will happen to me then?
    Should I stab her again and kill her? Christ, it's too bad to think about: a dead body, and not just any old corpse: Krystal McQueen, former glamour model turned pop singer and long-term girlfriend of soccer star Beaumont Alexander.
    Deal with it, Beaumont, deal with it.
    I want her to die.
    No more magazine photo-shoots. The tabloids will lose interest in me. I could go back to being a playboy. A nice apartment in central London, women, parties, more women, and then, when I'm tired of that I could walk away from it all … get the modest, detached house, the wife, the kids, the neat garden, the Koi Carp in the pond, the golf club membership…
    I'm not going to call the ambulance.
    But the thought of driving the knife in again makes me feel faint.
    "Beaumont," she says, more urgently now. "We … don't have … to do … the interview … baby?"
    "It's not about the interview… I'm sorry." Now it's me that's crying.
    "Oh Beaumont … you fucker."
    This stirs something in me. I look down at her and am disgusted – not at the blood that's like a bright red lake on the white kitchen tiles, and smeared up the walls of the unit where she'd placed a dirtied palm, but at the whole predicament, our vanity and selfishness. She's right, we're both messed up. I bring the knife down again.
    At the sight of this she starts to shake and say 'no' over and over again, and I can't do it. No, I can't go through with it, I can't kill her.
    So I put the knife down onto the worktop and rush to the phone in the hallway. But when I've got the receiver held to my ear, I find myself not dialling '999' but Serge's number. Serge will know what to do. I'm lying to myself that he's the best person to call for help; really, I'm calling him because I know he's been in situations like this before – he knows what to do with corpses and stuff. And after all, as my agent, he gets paid enough to sort shit like this out.
    I gulp hard as the line connects and I hold my breath as it rings, each ring slow but urgent.
    "Beaumont, my man." Serge sounds calm, I exhale.
    "Oh Serge, I've fucked up big style mate." The words just come tumbling out.
    "Eh? What's happened then, you ain't got some tart up the duff again have you?"
    "Oh God, no, no. I—" but I can't bring myself to tell him what I've done. "You better come round quick, it's bad shit. Can you come over to mine?"
    "Jesus Beaumont." He sounds kind of amused. "I'm in fucking Berkshire, probably a few over the limit."
    "Oh God, please, can you just try?" I find that I'm crying again.
    "Crapping hell. It'll take at least an hour. This better be worth it."
    "It is," I tell him, "I'll see you in a bit." And then I place the receiver down before he has a chance to reply. Please may the bastard come.

    Back in the kitchen, and Krystal is now lying slumped near the door looking unconscious, or worse (or better?). She's tried to drag herself about two metres across the floor, leaving a thick trail in her wake. Blood everywhere. Cherry red, just like my Invicta sports car. I go to stand near her. I hope it's over, but I don't want to touch her.
    Fucking hell: the body – she – twitches. So she ain't dead yet. I stare at her in a trance, totally without feeling, without opinion. I'm so tired I want to die too, and I sink to my knees.

    I don't know how long I waited, but I think I