Dead Head
Praise for C J Skuse
‘Brilliantly-written characters, original and engaging. It’s so good!’
BA Paris
‘This darkly comic novel… has the potential to become a cult classic’
Daily Mail
‘This isn’t a book for the squeamish or the faint-hearted … think Bridget Jones meets American Psycho’
RED
‘Filthy and funny… a compulsive read’
Sunday Times
‘You MUST read this book especially if you like your (anti) heroes dirty-mouthed, deadly dark, dark dark. I adored it’
Fiona Cummins
‘This anti-hero is psychotic without doubt… incredibly funny’
SHOTS
‘Makes Hannibal Lecter look like Mary Poppins… this is going to give me a serious book hangover’
John Marrs
‘If you like your thrillers darkly comic and outrageous this ticks all the boxes’
Sun
‘SO dark, SO laugh-out-loud funny, the world through Rhiannon’s eyes is perfectly, acutely observed. Brilliant!’
SJI Holliday
C J SKUSE was born in 1980 in Weston-super-Mare. She has two First Class degrees in Creative Writing and Writing for Young People, and aside from being a novelist works as a Senior Lecturer at Bath Spa University.
Also by C J Skuse:
The Alibi Girl
Sweetpea Series:
Sweetpea
In Bloom
For Young Adults:
Pretty Bad Things
Rockoholic
Dead Romantic
Monster
The Deviants
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © C J Skuse 2021
C J Skuse asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008311421
Version 2021-02-01
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008312589
Dedication
For Alex, Josie and Joshua
Epigraph
How can I be substantial without casting a shadow? I must have a dark side too if I am to be whole.
CARL GUSTAV JUNG, FOUNDER OF ANALYTICAL PSYCHIATRY
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Barnes & Noble, Fifth Avenue, New York City
Part 1: Europe
Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Sluggers Bar, Fifth Avenue, New York City
Monday, 31 December 2018 – at sea – one day to Madeira
Tuesday, 1 January 2019 – Madeira
Wednesday, 2 January – Cadiz
Thursday, 3 January – Gibraltar
Friday, 4 January – Cartagena
Saturday, 5 January – Valencia
Sunday, 6 January – Mallorca
Monday, 7 January – Barcelona
Tuesday, 8 January – Marseille
Wednesday, 9 January – Genoa
Thursday, 10 January – Florence
Thursday evening, 10 January – at sea
Friday, 11 January – Rome
Part 2: Mexico
Sunday, 13 January – Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez
Sunday, 20 January – Hacienda Santuario
Monday, 21 January – Hacienda Santuario
Thursday, 24 January – Hacienda Santuario
Saturday, 26 January – Hacienda Santuario
Monday, 28 January – Hacienda Santuario
Monday, 4 February – Hacienda Santuario
Wednesday, 6 February – Hacienda Santuario
Friday, 15 February – Hacienda Santuario – the day before surgery starts
Monday, 18 February – Hacienda Santuario
Wednesday, 6 March – Hacienda Santuario
Friday, 15 March – Hacienda Santuario
Friday, 29 March – Hacienda Santuario
Friday, 5 April – Hacienda Santuario
Wednesday, 17 April – Hacienda Santuario
Monday, 29 April – Hacienda Santuario
Sunday, 5 May – Hacienda Santuario
Tuesday, 7 May – Playa Tortuga, Rocas Calientes
Thursday, 9 May – Holiday Inn en el Agua, Rocas Calientes
Friday, 10 May – the beachfront, Rocas Calientes
Monday, 13 May – Hacienda Santuaria
Monday, 3 June (early) – Hacienda Santuaria
Thursday, 6 June – Hacienda Santuaria
Friday, 14 June – Holiday Inn el Agua, Rocas Calientes
Sunday, 16 June – Holiday Inn el Agua, Rocas Calientes
Wednesday, 19 June – St Christopher’s Hospital, Colonia Centro, San Jose del Cabo
Part 3: New York State
Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Sluggers Bar, Fifth Avenue, New York City
Thursday, 23 January – Greyhound bus from JFK Airport, Queens to Manchester, Vermont
Thursday, 23 January – Burlington International Airport, Vermont
Acknowledgements
Extract
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Publisher
Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Barnes & Noble, Fifth Avenue, New York City
Space invaders – arm overspill, leg overstep, sole of shoe overhang
Woman on her phone coming out of Sephora who barged into me and told me to apologise. Have wheelchair, must have attitude it seems
Cab drivers who stink of beefy crotch sweat
That jowly cuck news guy Guy Majors
Grandpa Joe – you lazy, lazy bastard
You can smell Bryan coming. He’s the store manager. He bounds onto the makeshift stage with all the elegance of a dying rhino – grey trousers at half-mast, stain on hurriedly bought tie, pustules along his chin, greasy hair scraped into an elastic band by fingernails caked up with newsprint and old cum.
We’re on the mezzanine. Twenty lines of chairs in the endless Biographies section. It’s standing room only. I’m at the back, facing the aisle between a woman with a bulky handbag and a MAGA-capped Hulk Hogan lookalike with more earrings than actual ear. At the front, behind two vacant stools and mic stands, is a huge poster of the book
cover with my face on:
THE SWEETPEA KILLER:
The True Confessions of Rhiannon Lewis
They’ve gone to town on decorations. Paper lei garlands draped over bookshelves, fake roses dangling from jutting Barbra Streisand memoirs, fake petals scattered around the carpet. Everyone on seats or standing is carrying a copy of the book.
My book.
Wow wow wow, fellas. Look at the old girl now, fellas.
They’re giving out iced biscuits too. Flower-shaped – nice touch. The tray is empty by the time it gets to me, of course. Typical. God forbid someone nips out the back to open another packet and refill it.
I spent the best part of my twenties trying to get a book deal. And now I have a bestselling book out with my face on the cover and my story within the pages and it’s been at the top of the (non-fiction) bestseller lists for the last four months. The only problem is I can take none of the credit. No glow radiates on me.
Opportunity has knocked and, once again, I’m fucking out.
Not one of those Best Book Awards or Author of the Year awards or invitations to New York Fashion Week has my name on it. They all have his name on it: Freddie Litton-Cheney. The man whose name is on the cover above mine. He is the author – I am merely his muse.
‘Hey, everyone, thanks so much for coming out on this freezing night,’ Bryan laughs nervously into his mic. ‘A few more minutes and we’ll welcome our special guest to the stage.’ He reads out some fire regs and notices of upcoming events with Michelle Obama and that owl who saved the kids from the barn fire, before bouncing off, black T-shirt patchy with sweat.
Clearly there’s an issue. The star turn has thrown a wobbler over the blue M&Ms or the wrong puppies they got him to play with in the green room while he waits. Nevertheless, all gussets throb with anticipation.
Freddie asked me once why I wasn’t milking my fame more, back in the days when Craig had just been banged up for my crimes and I found myself basking in ‘his’ reflected glory. I’d been offered a shit ton of telly work and magazines to tell my story as Girlfriend of a Serial Killer. Could have earned thousands. He said I was a headliner – I should be centre stage, like Deloris Van Cartier in Sister Act. And now here I am, centre stage – and everyone’s throwing flowers at my understudy. I couldn’t answer him then. I can now.
Bryan gets a message and bounds back on and through his sheen of sweat announces:
‘OK we’re ready now so please put your hands together for tonight’s guest. We are so privileged he’s been able to stop by on his tour of the States, and he’s fresh from a recording of The Ellen Show too, I’m told—’
Cue the chorus of ‘woo hoos’ and palpable hum of excitement.
‘—and he has to fly to Chicago straight after this event—’ ‘Woo hoo’ squared.
‘Mr Freddie Litton-Cheney!’
And on he bounds, with infinitely more elegance and poise than old Cum-Nails Bryan. Freddie’s in his highly polished Tom Ford loafers, a tailored cream suit and trousers so tight you can see the dead presidents on his pocket change. His grin is predictably shit-eating and as knicker-wettingly seductive as ever and I can almost hear the distant explosion of a thousand ovaries.
No wonder he’s a star.
‘Thanks so much, everybody.’ He nods with a polite British wave, before manspreading widely atop his stool so The Bulge cannot be ignored. Every one of us is now pregnant with his child. Even the chairs.
He shakes hands with Bryan – poor bastard – but to his credit doesn’t wipe it off afterwards. Hulk Hogan next to me and a couple of younger women further along are fixed on Freddie’s face. Awestruck. That’s the expression. After all, the man they are looking at is the man who has met a serial killer. The man who has hugged a serial killer. The man who has the number one bestselling book about said serial killer.
And that serial killer is little old me.
‘So Freddie, how are you enjoying New York City?’ asks Bryan, slurping up some rogue drool as a few dandruff flakes float from this thatch.
‘Oh, it’s great. I’ve been well looked after by my publisher—’
Freddie informs the crowd that he has already done a tour of major news networks, which produces a third ‘woo hoo’ from a woman in a neck brace on the Frow. He has quite the following. A whole herd of leather trousers gaze up at him – all snap-happy with their phones, all hair-did specially. The fact Freddie has been happily married to another man for years, with whom he has two children, doesn’t put them off. Every hand gesture, every hair flick is to be admired. Every time he says something mildly suggestive, they yank off their knickers and several sodden Tena Ladys fly at his face.
OK that’s a lie, but I’m sure they’re one neat vodka away from doing so.
‘You’ve heard all about the book already of course,’ he says, ‘but part of the reason why I’m doing this tour—’
International fame and a fat stack of cold hard cash?
‘—is that I want to give people the chance to ask me any questions about it, about Rhiannon herself and the time I spent with her—’
I choke back a guffaw. He doorstepped me twice and bought me one ice cream. Our conversation ranged from our favourite doughnut to reasons why Back in the Habit is the best Sister Act movie. We’re hardly besties.
‘—I’m interested in what everyone’s views are on Rhiannon and the whole story, having read the book. Have y’all read the book yet?’
I don’t know why he’s saying ‘y’all’ like he’s some hickory-smoked banjo strummer from the Bible Belt – he’s from Torquay. Anyway, a chorus of ‘Yeahs!’ follow and he grins. Once upon a time that grin could have supplexed me into a mattress and skewered me like a kebab. Now it just irritates.
Bryan invites Freddie to do a reading from said book. And I have to stand there listening to him putting the emphases on all the wrong words so my jokes fall flat and it’s all I can do to stop myself getting up, grabbing the mic and doing it myself. I can’t bear it when people tell jokes ineffectually.
After the reading, Bryan asks a series of tedious questions which are basically segues into his own book about serial killers and his time working with them – he’d visited Ted Bundy’s cousin’s niece once in jail or something. I drifted off to a nearby shelf to flick through a Patricia Highsmith biography, only half-listening.
I perk up when the convo swivels back to me.
‘The British media dubbed Rhiannon “Little Miss Vigilante” and “Ripperella”. Are those fair nicknames, do you think?’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Freddie smiles, teeth a-twinkling, and you can almost hear the elastic snapping on each pair of knickers on the Frow. ‘I think Rhiannon would have liked those names.’
I didn’t.
‘A lot of readers have reported that they found themselves rooting for her as they read the account, myself included actually—’
Yawn. Nobody cares, Bryan.
‘—did you root for her as you were reading her diaries for the first time?’
‘Yeah, for sure,’ says Freds. ‘I can see why people took to her. She was kind to animals and children and the vulnerable. She once saved a woman from being raped. She’s extremely popular in the UK, still is. There was a survey on British TV, not long after the story broke – 90 per cent of the respondents said they wouldn’t call the police if they met her.’
‘That’s extraordinary,’ says Bryan, with no meaning behind it because he’s too busy getting lost in his notes for the next question. ‘But there were a few particularly shocking killings, weren’t there?’
‘Dean Bishopston for sure, yeah. He was merely a taxi driver in the wrong place at the wrong time. And AJ Thompson, the father of her baby. He was only 19. They did nothing wrong.’
‘But just because the other people did do wrong, the guys in the van, the old pederast, it doesn’t mean they deserved to die, does it?’
A hush descends. My eyebrow involuntarily rises as though it’s trying to grow an ext
ra ear to hear Freddie’s answer to this one.
‘Nobody deserves to die, of course,’ he says on a long exhale, ‘but in Rhiannon’s mind, sex offenders and paedophiles were fair game.’
‘Was she raped herself?’ asks Bryan, escalating the chat with admirable aplomb. ‘Was that why she held sex offenders in such particular disdain?’
‘If she was, she never mentioned it in the diaries,’ replies Freddie. ‘It could explain a lot but I have no evidence to suggest that, no.’
‘What about the grandfather?’ calls out an achingly thin woman with red hair three rows from the back. ‘The one she watched die in the river?’
Freddie looks in the woman’s general direction. ‘That can’t be proven, madam. She certainly didn’t divulge such information to me.’
‘What kind of vibe did she give off?’ asks Bryan. ‘Were you scared in her company?’
‘I didn’t know what Rhiannon had done when I met her. I thought she was simply Craig Wilkins’ girlfriend and he was on remand for multiple murder. I thought she was a victim. I felt sorry for her but no, I wasn’t scared of her.’
Bryan’s practically rubbing his crotch by this point. ‘What was it like when you got that mail with her diaries in?’
‘It was an ordinary morning, a few days into the New Year. My husband had gone off to work. I was taking our kids swimming and the postman rang the door. I had a parcel and I left it on the dining table.’
‘You didn’t open it up right away?’
‘No, I assumed it was some books I’d ordered for my husband for his birthday. They were coming from Australia.’
‘Right, right.’
Two mentions now of the husband but the Frow don’t seem to have noticed. One brunette is visibly unbuttoning her blouse.
‘When I got back, I made the kids lunch and we settled down to watch a film – Coco, I think it was. I put the parcel in the wardrobe and forgot it.’
Cue audible gasp.
‘I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? But my husband’s birthday wasn’t till February so I thought I’d wrap it up nearer the time. About two weeks later, the parcel fell out of the wardrobe while I was packing away some blankets and I opened it to have a look at the books. Instead it was these two handwritten diaries. On the front it said “The True Confessions of Rhiannon Lewis, aged 27/28”.’