I want to murder a celebrity.
It may sound melodramatic, but that’s just the way it is. I first came to the realisation when I was fifteen. I remember sitting there at school – in a Thursday afternoon RE lesson, with a bunch of other bored drones freezing our collective arses off as the boiler was broken – thinking, Shit, I need to do something with my life. And like with tattoos, if you’re still keen on an idea after ten years, then just go ahead and plunge in the needle.
It’s not like that’s the only thing I’ve been fixated on the last decade. I wasn’t like, ‘Mum, pass the Cheerio’s-I’m-gonna-slice-Holly-Willoughby’s-neck.’ Or, ‘Hey, roomies, let me tell you about the gun I’ve bought to pop a hole in Lenny Henry’s small intestine.’
And I’m not a perv either, or one of those creepy True Detective psychos. I haven’t fantasised over the severed heads of Little Mix or dreamt of collecting the toes of Taylor Swift’s past boyfriends in glass jars around my bedroom. Give me some credit.
So why do I want to do it?
I don’t know, maybe it’s a narcissistic thing. Perhaps I just want to be remembered for something. Maybe I have mummy issues, or daddy issues. (I do, by the way – they’re downstairs now watching The One Show on full blast since they’re both deaf and it’s fucking annoying.) Maybe I just want the world to know my name, but I don’t have enough talent to earn it. Not that talent’s a necessity these days, with anyone who lives in Chelsea or Essex or a council estate seemingly given a free pass to stardom through some variety of Channel 4 docuspunk.
But I don’t live in Chelsea. And I’m not on benefits.
Well, technically I am. But not benefits benefits like poor people are on. Just like the middle class, Oh you got let go from your last job six months ago and can’t find another? Here’s some money to pay off the parents you’re still living with while you fail to get any other sort of employment and make anything of your life even though you went to university for three years and really deserve something better-type benefits.
I sound bitter. I’m not bitter, I promise. Not really.
•
I’ve decided who I’m going to kill. It came to me in an instant as I was sitting watching TV one afternoon. Daniel Wilks. I saw his face and knew that he was the one.
Daniel Wilks is of course most well-known for his role as Dr Ian Goodridge on daytime soap opera Doctors. He’s thirty-eight, with an unassuming demeanour, manicured stubble and big blue eyes that make him the perfect fit for Dr Goodridge’s earnest and likeable character. That was key – the victim has to be likeable, if they are to be a victim.
Browsing through his Wikipedia and IMDb, while the man himself is on TV in the background – and I’m eating my microwaved Ginsters steak slice and some baked beans – I learn the entire history of Daniel Wilks. Born in 1977 in Hampshire, he has two brothers (both in finance) and a sister (who is a make-up artist on Doctors). He went to St Anthony’s boys school where he first developed a love of acting, appearing in a school production of Richard III that was even recorded by the BBC as part of their Shakespeare In Schools series. (This is also his first official credit on IMDb.) After working for a short time at a post office, he moved to London to pursue his career in acting. He attended RADA, starred in a few limited run theatre productions, played the part of Angry Customer on an episode of EastEnders, appeared twice on Coronation Street (as different characters), did a string of commercials (sadly none of which I can find on YouTube), before finally landing his defining role on Doctors. He even has a Facebook fan page.
I like the page, smiling to myself. This is important, of course. After the deed is done, the police will comb through every aspect of my life, looking for a clue as to why I would have done it. They’ll find this and probably use it for some kind of obsessive stalker profile. Weak, I know. But I expect The Sun will make a feature out of it at least.
•
He’s currently doing a two-week run at the New Barnabas Theatre on top of the day job, the prolific bastard. I joke, Daniel. I love you really. I’m envious, that’s all. It’s a show called A Night with My Lover, an adaptation by a young playwright of the supposed collection of letters by Paul Newman’s supposed mistress supposedly sent to Paul Newman. Daniel is, of course, playing old blue eyes himself.
I decide I’d rather buy the tickets in person, so I take the bus over to the New Barnabas after Doctors finishes. Surprisingly the show is almost booked up, but I’m able to get a seat for the penultimate night, back row. This is just over a week away, which gives me the necessary time to work out how I’m going to kill him.
I don’t particularly want to make him suffer. I’m not a cruel man. Quick and painless, that will suit me fine. It doesn’t have to be dramatic – in fact, maybe less dramatic is better. Like John Lennon. Bang bang, give up the gun, done. Except, not with a gun, obviously. This is England, not America. Though ‘give up the kitchen knife’ doesn’t sound quite as cool.
Ideally people need to see me do it. I don’t want any doubt about who the killer is. No police cover up, no grassy knoll, no Russian spy conspiracies. Nope, there’s only one name I want front page of the papers the next day and that’s mine. And Daniel Wilks’s, obviously.
Do I want to die too? Be riddled with bullets at the scene of the crime by overzealous cops and anguished bystanders? OK, not like that – again, not America. But would I rather top myself there and then, end my legacy with a definitive full stop? Or stick around to soak up the aftermath, even if it means living out my remaining decades shunted around various facilities? Honestly, I’m undecided. There are benefits to both. Sure, I’d love to see the reaction for myself. But it does weaken the impact of your statement, if the public then watch you aging and fading away like any normal person. We’ll just have to see how it goes on the night, I suppose.
•
I’ve always been fascinated by celebrities. Well, it’s more than that really. It’s a kind of awe. I remember for a school trip once we went on a tour of the BBC News studios and met one of the presenters. Seeing this woman there, in the flesh, just bowled me over. She was just there in front of me – a real human being, something I could reach out and touch – but she was also the woman who I’d seen on the screen in our front room. Who thousands of people had seen on the screens in their front rooms.
It’s the same with pretty much anyone on TV. Even when someone you know gets interviewed on the street for a five second clip. They’ve been viewed by the world.
Millions of people will have seen Daniel Wilks, will have experienced the same images of him, yet he’ll never meet most of them in person. That’s what makes him special. The unattainability. The celebrity.
And I’m going to kill him for it.
•
The penultimate performance of A Night with My Lover is on a Friday evening. Daniel is filming until mid-afternoon over in Selly Oak, before he’ll travel to the Barnabas for the show. I’ve decided I should meet him beforehand. Like the Facebook page, it’s another little detail that will give the story a bit more juice once this is all over. I’m thinking John Lennon and that autograph signing.
Unfortunately none of Doctors has been released on DVD, but I did manage to get a second-hand copy of tie in novel Doctors: Call to Action off Amazon. Granted, it’s from before Daniel joined the series, but it will have to do.
I travel over to Drama Village in Selly Oak and very quickly come up against the iron curtain of television security. But there is a reception area where the public is allowed access, so I tell the girl behind the desk what I’m here for (though obviously not the part about murdering one of their stars) and she tells me to take a seat while she makes a call.
‘Mr Wilks is very busy at the moment,’ she explains afterwards. ‘He’s doing a show.’
‘I know, I’m going to see it later,’ I say.
‘Oh, fantastic,’ she smiles. ‘I’ve told his people’ – his people – ‘that you’d like to meet him, so he’ll try his best to pop in after shooting finishes. OK?’
‘Perfect.’
I wait.
Sure enough, just over ninety minutes later, a taxi stops outside and he steps out. My heart’s beating fast and I can barely contain my excitement as he strolls through the door, looking round the reception area. I hurry over to him.
‘Hi, Mr Wilks!’ I bluster.
‘Oh, hi. Are you the…?’
‘Yes!’ I cry, shoving the battered copy of Doctors: Call to Action and a Sharpie under his nose. His real, human nose. I’m so close I can see his pores, smell his sweat, even see his blackheads. Celebrity blackheads.
‘Great,’ he says, a little unsure.
‘I couldn’t find a DVD,’ I explain, as he peels open the cover.
‘Who shall I make it out to?’
‘Just put, I don’t know, “To Graham, my”’ – future killer – ‘“fan who I’ll never forget”.’
‘OK, brilliant,’ he says, scribbling it down with a flourish. ‘Right, I best be shooting off. Nice to meet you, Graham.’
He hands the book back. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you later, Daniel.’
A slightly worried smile flits across his face as he hurries out of the reception area. I stand and watch as he gets back in the taxi and is driven away. Before I leave, I turn and nod to the reception lady, thanking her.
Make sure you remember me, I think at her. You’ll be telling this story to a lot of people very soon.
•
The show itself is pretty shit. I’m sorry, Daniel, it just is. I mean, he’s fine in it but the dialogue’s poor and there’s no real meat to the story. Just a lot of ‘I can’t do this anymore!’ ‘But we love each other!’ ‘I know!’ crap. Oh well. At least it’s another chance to see Daniel Wilks off the television in the flesh, in the same actual room as myself, performing away on stage. Somehow it’s less affecting, I reflect, knowing that only three hundred or so people are seeing this performance. It makes it less special when it isn’t being beamed out across the country. Strange.
But I sit through the show in my snug little back row seat, sipping my polystyrene cup of Earl Grey I bought at the bar. I keep stroking my arm against the fur hood the lady next to me has obnoxiously let dangle into my space, wondering if she’ll notice. When it finally finishes, we clap (no standing ovation) and the previously civilised people scramble to the exits like a hoard of sleasyJet passengers in their rush to get the first taxi home. I wait until most of them have left, knowing it will take a little while for Daniel to get changed and be ready to leave.
The stage door is round the corner from the entrance, in a side alley. It’s dark outside, but the main streets have a steady stream of people and traffic. As I first turn into the alley, it seems to my horror to be empty. My plan crumbles – I need witnesses for this to work! Where are Daniel’s loyal fans? The ones that aren’t here to stab him through the ear drum? I’m hyperventilating, swaying down the alleyway, but then I spot her. A hunchbacked old dear, waiting with her notebook by the steel exit door.
‘Thank God. Are you here for Daniel Wilks?’ I ask, joining her.
She doesn’t appear to notice me, just continues to mumble and nod, so I’m not sure whether she’s agreeing or just having a minor stroke.
Quarter of an hour ticks by. Hurry up, Daniel, get your kit back on – I’ve got murdering to do.
After twenty minutes it starts to rain. First a trickle, then a full on downpour. Shit. The woman huffs, buries her notebook in her jacket and shuffles off. Even more shit. Just as I’m trying to work out what to do, the door opens.
‘Ah Christ, not more rain,’ he says. It’s Daniel Wilks, right there, on the other side of the door. Less than a metre away. In one of my jacket pockets is the metal barbecue skewer I spent all of yesterday sharpening to a fine point. In the other pocket is a signed copy of Doctors: Call to Action.
I hear the flick as he lights up a cigarette in the doorway. I’m still panicking, trying to work out how to rescue the plan now there are no witnesses. Maybe CCTV will do? I glance around the alley. No cameras. Trust me to pick the one alleyway in Birmingham with no CCTV to murder someone in. Maybe I could just stagger out into the main street, drenched in Daniel Wilks’s blood. Then it would be pretty obvious I was the killer, and it would certainly make a good front page image. Just got to hope there was a handy hipster or Japanese tourist passing with their DSLR.
Daniel opens his umbrella and steps outside. The stage door closes. It takes a moment for him to notice me. My heart’s pounding like crazy. I freeze when he spots me. Recognition registers in his eyes.
‘Oh, hello again, um…?’
‘Graham.’
‘Graham. Did you come to the show?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great.’ He looks a little nervous. I’m making a famous person nervous. Shit, I’m making myself nervous. ‘Did you enjoy it…?’
I step in closer, trying to get under his umbrella. He flinches, tries to laugh.
‘It’s raining,’ I say.
‘It is,’ he says. I’m under the umbrella. I’m so close to him I can feel his breath. I slide my hand inside my jacket.
‘Got something else for me to sign?’ he chuckles.
‘Yes,’ I say, whipping out the skewer. One hand on his neck. The other jabs the skewer towards his head. In through the ear, into the brain and it’ll be a nice quick end. But he grunts, drops the umbrella and swats my weapon away.
Metal slices through his palm in a sheet of blood. We both stumble away from each other. Shit, this looked so much easier on Luther.
He’s older than me, but he’s stronger. His big blue eyes are steely cold. He stands there, stock still, like we’re duelling in a Western. Rain drenches us both.
I’m not sure what to do. If he runs, everything will be ruined. I’ll be locked up, unable to fulfil my ambitions. There’s no hall of fame for attempted celebrity assassins.
My fist tightens round the skewer and I charge him. The alley’s tight and we crash as one into the wall. He twists me round, forcing my shoulder against the brick. There are no words, only physical connection. He’s not like this in Doctors, I think. He should do action movies.
He elbows me in the stomach. I gasp, but try to jam the skewer into his neck. The quick death’s gone out the window. He grabs my wrist with his sliced hand, bending the blade away. His blood runs up my arm. I take a moment to soak it in. Daniel Wilks’s blood. Celebrity blood. Blood that’s been on TV, and now it’s on my arm.
Before I even realise, he’s shoved his full weight into me. I feel a prick under my shoulder blade. As he pulls away, I see the skewer sticking out the top of my chest. Daniel stares at it, breathing heavily. I know it’s only rain trickling down his face, but I imagine he’s crying. He’s still holding me against the wall. I use a free hand the pluck the blade out. It comes loose with a delicate sucking noise. Daniel chokes, looking like he’s about to vomit.
This is my chance to finish it. I take the skewer – used last summer for Dad’s sweet and sour prawns – and jab it towards his heart. He’s caught off balance and we tumble towards the opposite wall. Swivelling round, he manages to fling me back into the hard brick. My spine jolts against it. My skewer’s still striking towards him. He wrestles it, groaning as blood weeps from his injured hand. I grab at his face, hoping to pull it closer and stab him. My fingers clench around his ear. Now this is a proper close up. Like they use for when Dr Goodridge has to tell someone they have cancer. Except this time Dr Goodridge looks like he wants to give someone cancer.
He screams. I scream back at him. He snaps my fingers from the skewer. I try to grab it back. I grasp his arm and claw at his ear. Ramming me back against the alley wall, he winds me.
I can’t breathe. A whistle escapes my throat. My knees seem to buckle. Daniel Wilks lets me slide to the ground. As I do, the blade slides out from my punctured lung. As I realise this, I press a hand to my chest and it comes away red. Shit. I think I can feel the hole in me. It’s like the air is whipping straight into my chest, and it’s wet.
I look up. Daniel’s glaring at me with wild eyes. There’s panic in them too. Horror. I smile and reach for him, managing to wipe a smear of my blood down his chinos. That seems to tip him off balance and he backs away, unsteady. He glances down at the bloody skewer in his hand and chucks it away at my feet.
He frets there, glancing around, unsure what to do. My head begins to loll forwards. After what seems like quite a few minutes, he backs away towards the mouth of the alley. He keeps watching me, like I’m going to jump up and chase after him. But my eyes are beginning to drift shut. I smile at him all the while. I smile even after Daniel Wilks has turned the corner and left me alone in the alley. I smile because we’ve had this experience. This special, special experience.
Murdered by a celebrity, now that’s a death worth dying for.
‘Celebrity’ is part of my short story collection, The Other World. If you thought this one was dark, wait till you read the others…