Page 10 of Conviction
I scream at him.
I shake him.
I hold him.
I rock him in my arms, and I hold him tight.
I’ve no idea how long I’ve been sitting there when I hear a commotion and a policeman walks into the room, followed by two paramedics and another policeman. I don’t say a word as they take him from me and get to work. But I know. I’m not an expert, and I have no idea what’s the correct way to find a pulse, but I know he doesn’t have one. I know he isn’t breathing and they don’t need to waste their time doing all the shit they’re doing.
He’s dead.
Jet’s gone.
He’s dead.
The next few hours were a blur. Lawson arrived in our room, then Dom and Gunner. The police wouldn’t let me see anyone at first then Laws got a lawyer from somewhere, and he sat with me while the police asked me questions. I might’ve been in shock, but I wasn’t stupid. I told them that I knew nothing; that we came back here after last night’s show, there were a few people hanging around, but I wasn’t in the mood to party, so I went to bed. The next thing I know, Lara’s screaming and banging on my door. I assume Lara’s giving her statement somewhere and hopefully she’s saying something along the lines of what I am. Otherwise, we’re both fucked.
Finally, Jet’s body’s removed. The forensic team pack up their stuff, and the police leave. I’m eventually allowed out of Jet’s bedroom, where I’ve been held since the police arrived. Swabs and prints have been taken from under my nails, and from my fingertips. I’m still only wearing my boxers, and I’m freezing. I walk past Lawson and the boys, straight to my room and pull a hoodie and a pair of joggers from my case. I put them on while the boys all stand and watch.
Everybody’s silent.
Jet’s dead!
He swallowed a bottle of around thirty Valium, washed them down with a bottle of Grey Goose and then just in case that didn’t work, he cut his wrists. As the Valium sent him off to a sleep that he’d never wake up from, he bled out around a quarter of the blood in his body until his heart just stopped. That’s what the forensic team are assuming, but they won’t know for sure until an autopsy is done. I’m amazed at how much info I took in from the paramedic’s conversation with the police. A conversation that I’m probably never likely to forget.
I look at Lawson, Dom and Gunner. “Jet’s dead,” I tell them. “He washed thirty Valium down with a bottle of vodka and then just to make sure that the job was done, he slit his wrists. He’s dead! I found him at the bottom of his bath. He’s dead, Jet’s dead!” They’re all staring at me blankly, still not saying a word. “Do you hear what I’m saying, are any of you even listening to me? He’s dead, he’s fucking dead.” I can hear myself getting louder and louder.
Gunner steps forward and wraps his arms around me. “Shit Reed, this is fucked. I’m so sorry you had to see all that mate.” I’m not a big fan of human contact. I usually try to avoid it. When we’re on stage or working it’s different, I can deal with it, but once emotions become involved, I don’t like it. I’m always worried that I’ll lose control and start to feel, and I hate it when I feel. I’m feeling now, and it hurts, it hurts so fucking much.
I don’t know where it comes from, but Dom’s suddenly putting a whisky tumbler in my hand. I take it and go and sit on the edge of the bed and knock back the drink. It calms me down and warms my belly instantly.
“Sorry,” I say, looking up at each of them in turn. “I’m sorry boys. Fuck! What a morning. What time is it?” I don’t know how to act. I don’t know what to say. There’s always four of us, now there’s only three. I don’t know how to be three. I scratch at my stubbly chin and rake my hand through my hair, trying to get my thoughts in order and make sense of what’s happened.
Laws sits down next to me. He’s our manager, but he’s only a couple of years older than me. He’s usually composed, he’s usually wearing a suit, and he’s usually got the answer to each and every problem we might encounter. Lawson and I get on well, he’s English, which is a start and he’s single. We’ve spent a few wild nights together in the company of a few willing women. Lawson has the look of a well-educated English gentleman, but I happen to know that he’s from Essex and a bit rough around the edges. Although he did go to university, so he’s better educated than me.
“It’s just gone one. What the fuck happened, Reed?”
Dom takes the glass from my hand as I stare down at the carpet. I rub both hands over the stubble on my jaw again and look at Lawson.
“It’s my fault. He did this because I told him I was leaving the band.”
Lawson frowns. “What? Why? Why would you tell him that?”
Gunner sits down on a chair that he’s brought in from the living area of the suite and sits on it. Dom comes back with a bottle of bourbon and four clean glasses. I watch as he sets them down on the unit below the television, fills them with pours than a double shot from the bottle, then passes one to each of us, before sitting his arse on the unit and stretching his long legs out in front of him, facing Lawson and me. My heart’s still racing, and I watch my hand shake as I grip the glass.
Jet’s dead.
My best mate’s dead, and it’s all my fault.
He killed himself because of what I’d said to him.
I drain what’s in my glass and hold it out to Dom for a top up. My throat burns from the alcohol, but I like it. The sensation distracts me from the thoughts crashing through my brain.
“You know what, all these years I’ve blamed her. I thought it was her fault for not turning up, that my brother died.” Dom passes me my refilled glass, and I take a sip. “But it wasn’t her. It was me. First my mum, then Miles, now Jet. They’re all dead because of me. It’s me, not her.”
“Reed, calm the fuck down mate and just tell us what happened,” Lawson asks again.
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and look at my bandmates. They all know my story, they know my mum was murdered and that my brother was killed, the whole fucking world knows that story. Every newspaper and magazine ran with it when we first made it big. They all jumped on the bad boy, Conner Reed bandwagon. ‘Con the Con’ being their favourite headline when they found out I’d been banged up. All the money they made reporting on other people’s misery, and yet they couldn’t come up with a better headline than that? Fucktards, the fucking lot of them. It had snowballed from there. Once they found out how my brother was killed and that I was in the car with him, the sympathy lasted for all of twenty seconds before they started reporting on the fact that I was locked up while the accident was investigated. Then the fuckers found out I’d been in trouble as a kid and that’s when the ‘Conner the Convicted’ and ‘Con the Con’, headlines began.
