Dealing with a feet pervert at a distance had been fine. Up close, when this is not a thing I am into, is difficult. I have to detach mentally from the situation. As it’s happening, I think about how interesting it is, the things people do to get through the day.
‘Where’s your cream?’ I expect him to go into his blue poly bag and produce a particular brand or scent that gets him going. I nod towards it, encouraging a break in proceedings so I can make sense of it all.
‘I don’t have any.’ His knees crack all over again. He goes over to the poly bag, pulls out an array of miniature alcohols. ‘Whisky?’
My answer would have been no regardless, but I give it more forcibly upon noticing it’s Famous Grouse. The brand doesn’t seem to bother Malcolm; he swigs from his, emptying the lot in one go.
I excuse myself. ‘You keep yourself entertained, I’m going to go freshen up in the bathroom.’
My handbag is deposited on the shut toilet lid, and then I briefly allow myself to panic about not really knowing what happens next. Killing him isn’t an option. Too many people have seen me with him, and even if they hadn’t, I just don’t think I could do it. It would be like murdering a part of myself. So not killing, but something worthwhile needs to happen.
Over the bath is the shirt Malcolm was wearing when I first met him. Without knowing why, I bundle it up and cram it into the bag. My makeup case is near the top, and inside it is a tiny miniature hand cream that’ll do the job for Malcolm to rub it into my feet. My nail scissors are in there too, and it gives me an idea. I take the shirt, cut the arms off it, then pull each sleeve from both ends to test the fabric’s strength. Finally, I get the hammer and put it and the sleeves at the top of my bag, carrying it with one hand, the cream in the other.
Reemerging back into the bedroom, I singsong, ‘Lucky you. Guess who found the perfect thing for their tired tootsies–’
Malcolm naked, Malcolm with his penis in hand, Malcolm sniffing my shoes. There was lots I was prepared for, but not what I find – Malcolm asleep in the foetal position, three empty whisky miniatures beside him, a fourth in his fist at an angle, drops of whisky dripping onto the sheets.
‘Malcolm?’ When he doesn’t react, I put the cream away. My loose plan had been to wait until he was on his knees rubbing my feet and then brandish the hammer, maybe give him a smack with it before tying him up and filming him slagging off buy-to-let landlords and apologising for his part in the whole wretched system.
Him sleeping, this opens up a whole load of cleaner options. Looking around, I find what I want: Malcolm’s mobile phone. I swipe up to see if he has face recognition or if it’s his fingerprint or a passcode that’ll gain me entry. It opens right up, no security on it at all, onto his home screen, which is a picture of a beach at sunrise or sunset next to a calm sea. It’s warm, cosy, unremarkable.
Malcolm’s messages are my first point of call. Initially, nothing exciting is uncovered. I search for swear words, for ‘feet’, for ‘landlord’, for ‘show’, for ‘filming’. What I learn is that he thinks Pip is a ‘dozy cunt’, that he sucked the toes of a waitress at a Premier Inn in Plymouth eighteen months ago, that he’s ‘too good for this show and you know it. Why am I not onStrictlyyet? I’ve been on telly for decades, I’m due my spot onStrictly’. All of this I screenshot and AirDrop to my phone. I can release these bits if this is the best I can get, and it will damage his public image but it won’t fully destroy it.
Malcolm turns over and his tiny drink fully empties onto the sheets. I wait for the moisture to rouse him. He licks his lips, scratches his belly, but doesn’t wake.
Next stop are his emails. I do a similar search and find a fantastic email chain from three years ago. Malcolm expressed concern about the state of a house they filmed at, believing it was uninhabitable. The series producer responded saying they wouldn’t include it in the show if it was dangerous. So far, so good for Malcolm, then he responded.
Malcolm: Look, I know we’re used to showcasing shitholes and encouraging people to improve them only as much as makes them barely liveable, but it’s my face fronting it all. Please consider my reputation when deciding whether to continue with this or any other hellhole for inclusion in the edit.
Series Producer: Malcolm, I appreciate the show is a large part of your public image. The decision to broadcast a property or not is dependent on what is safe and aspirational for our viewers – NOT YOU.
Malcolm: Iamthe show. No one cares about the punters, people are watching for me. No one cares about some scummy bedsit in Blackpool but they do care about Malcolm Havisham.
A huge chunk of the landlords we feature are lazy bastards, they do the bare minimum and you know it. Me, I work my absolute cunt in for this show. And the poor souls renting what we show, that can’t be much of a life at all.
Boom. That’s Malcolm’s life exploding.
42
Walking into work, I was primed to bask in the glow of what has happened to Malcolm only to enter an empty office. Gavin’s not at their desk and Brian is shut away filming his pish, which I have had to interrupt to pass a call through to him from woman of the hour, Heather Gray. Answering the phone to her, I was surprised to discover she was actually lovely. Well, presented as lovely.
‘Oh, it’s you, the girl Brian’s raving about. I’m Heather, so delightful to finally talk to you. Could you transfer me through to him, please? I keep trying his mobile but he’s not picking up.’
If I was cleverer I would know how to patch her through to Brian and continue to listen in, but I’m not, so I make do with hearing Brian’s side only.
‘Heather – But – Heather – Heather – Will you stop shouting? – If you treat enough people badly it’s all going to catch up with you eventually. It’s got nothing to do with me, and I am certainly not getting involved with those union folk again if I can help it. – How would I know that? – This sounds like a you problem.’
After it’s done he returns to his filming, sounding angrier than I’ve ever heard him before.
Sad that the chat about Malcolm I’d been looking forward to since I woke up is not going to materialise, I keep illuminating my phone on the headline ‘TV Presenter Denounces Own Show’, hoping Brian will emerge from his office or Gavin will walk in as I do so and I can start a conversation about it. With nothing else to do, I wonder if Malcolm even knows all the social media posts I made on his behalf last night exist, or if he’s still out cold. In the end, I posted everything incriminating I found across all of his platforms, my favourite being a screenshot of an email he sent his agent saying:
I cannot stand the primary audience of my work being the chronically unemployed, the ill, the elderly and the mentally deficient. I have had enough of being the face of squalid homes and slumlords. I HATE IT.
I hope he’s sleeping. Think how pleasantly he’ll remember those dreams when he can contrast them with the rest of his day, which I am certain will be harrowing.
In the kitchen, I put the kettle on to boil. The bell above the door rings and I peek out, expecting to see Gavin’s arrival, get my phone prepped to show them, but it’s Detective Diane. It looks like my day is going to be harrowing, too. My blood fizzes and pops in my veins like the water bubbling in the kettle. Whatever happens next is completely out of my control, and while that is terrifying, it is also thrilling.
‘Hiya, Diane. Fancy a cup of tea?’
