Sara’s Face

  And now he was really coming! So the first part of my wish had already come true …

  I’m so excited. It’s like having a – I don’t know, a fairy godmother here in the ward with me. He’s a genie, really; people that rich and famous, they’re like genies, there’s something magical about them. I was scared, because this is magic, real magic, the real thing. I know my dreams and ambitions can only come true through magic. I believe in magic. And I was scared because, like, maybe I’d suddenly got the power to make wishes come true. I was scared even to think that thought in case I wished for the wrong thing. Hey! Isn’t that crazy? Like, you know … sometimes I have bad thoughts inside me. Harmful things. I could hurt people if they ever got out.

  But that’s just nonsense. What’s real is – this is real; this is my big chance. I ballsed up big time and let myself down. But out of it – well. Anything could come out of it. And I knew at once what I was going to do. I know it was cheeky. I am cheeky. I’m the cheekiest person on this whole planet, let me tell you! I know he’s kind. He’s famous for being kind. So I had to do it. I had to ask him to make my dreams come true. So I did.

  When he came in, I mean actually walked into the ward, I was shocked. I’d seen him so many times on TV, it was like looking at someone who didn’t even exist. Isn’t that amazing, that you can get so famous that it’s like you don’t exist any more? Like you become fictional.

  And all the time they have a real life. That doesn’t make sense; I love things like that that are true and make no sense. They shit and wee and cough and sniff flowers and make tea. That’s what fascinated me the most – what he was really going to be like, I mean, really like, without the cameras. Anyway, so he came in. He was a story walking into the ward. He came down between the beds, turning his head this way and that, saying something no one could hear to one of his aides. He looked so unreal, just like he does on film. I mean, he looks unreal in real life! Amazing. And he dresses up all the time, just like you see him on stage – he had on one of those black suits with a kind of frock coat, you know, quite long, and cowboy boots. But you couldn’t see all of his face, because of course he had the mask on, the famous Jonathon Heat mask. He never takes it off. All you could see was his eyes and part of his mouth. They say his lips aren’t real. Ugh. That mask, it was a top-quality one, though. Honest, it looked like real skin. When he came up close, when he was just a few feet away from me looking into my eyes, it looked really spooky, because it really does look like real skin. There was a mole on it. Wow. What if it is …?

  He came along, nodding and chatting to some of the patients, but I knew who he was after because he kept glancing over in my direction. Mine. Me, me, me. Heh, heh, heh. All the time he was talking to the other people he was looking at me. He winked at me. See? Oh, he was mine! He went along from person to person with the sister and then at last he arrived at my bed.

  ‘This is Sara,’ said the sister.

  And Jonathon smiled and said, ‘Sara, I know.’ My hand went up to my face; I thought he must be referring to that, to my burns. I had a mask on. But he shook his head. ‘No, no. Not that, not your face. You. I recognise you.’

  Wow! I peered up at him to see if he was joking, but he wasn’t. I thought, Does he mean it? Is he just being weird – because, let’s face it, when you get that famous you’re weird already, by default. No one’s ever going to treat you like a human being ever again. Or was he just sucking up – you know how people do with sick people. They tell you how special you are. But they don’t mean special. They mean special.

  ‘The other patients are over here …’ the sister began, but Jonathon smiled at her and said, ‘I’d like to stop here and talk to Sara for a while, if I may. I believe this young lady and I have a lot in common.’

  Sister nodded. ‘Let me know when you’re ready,’ she said briskly, and walked off, as if wanting to talk to me was some kind of crime.

  I was just staring at him, trying to soak in that this was a real, living human being who just happened to be more famous than anyone else who had ever been alive, practically. Do you think, if you get so famous that so many people are thinking about you at any one time, and so many people love you and idolise you, that you can become like someone people pray to? Like, they carry so much human attention around with them, they could point it at you and make things happen if they felt like it? You know what I mean? That they can … I don’t know, bless you or something, just by being near you. That was how it felt with him. And here he was, standing next to my bed, looking down at me like I was a bag of his favourite sweets.

  His aides moved off a little bit to give us some privacy and he sat down on the edge of the bed. Jonathon Heat sitting on the side of your bed. Wow! My mum would have paid in flesh for that to happen to her. I was watching him, trying to read him – you know, was he just being nice, or was he trying to chat me up or did we really, really have a special bond? I was just biting the sides of my cheeks to stop myself from grinning like an idiot.

  ‘You’re wearing one of my masks,’ he said, frowning a little bit. ‘But a girl like you doesn’t need to hide her face.’

  ‘Oh, I like wearing it,’ I told him, and my blood ran cold because I knew he was going to want to see my face and … I’d had that accident, you see. I didn’t want him to see my burns. I mean, actually, I don’t say this to my mum or any of the shrinky people, because they’d take it all wrong – but I’m proud of my burns. I don’t want to be pretty. I want to be so much more than pretty!

  But he didn’t know that about me yet. I blushed at the thought of it. Of course he’d know about the burns. They’d have told him all about me. He’d think that I was some sort of psycho. But, anyway, he changed the subject.

  ‘I hear you’re a very talented girl; everyone here tells me that.’

  ‘Oh, I practise a little. Nothing like you, Mr Heat,’ I said, although, actually, Heat doesn’t have the best voice in the world. It’s being famous he’s good at.

  ‘I know you sing, Sara. I hear you have a lovely voice. Do you know “Allie’s Song”?’

  I wasn’t even going to have to ask him. He was doing it all for me!

  ‘Allie, do you know,’ I warbled, all nervous. I must have sounded dreadful, I was so scared, my throat was tight. He smiled at me and we sang it together while everyone in the whole ward listened.

  ‘Allie, do you know where your heart is?

  Do you even know where your home is now?

  Did you give it all away,

  Did you leave it all behind,

  Did you forget what it meant to you and me?

  Come home, come home, love,

  Come home with me.

  But, she said, I don’t need a home.

  I’ll drink your love instead.

  But she said, she said,

  I don’t need a heart.

  I’ll just be yours instead.’

  It was so beautiful. I say it myself, but it’s true. Our voices really worked together. Everyone, even the aides, they all turned round to listen and when it was over they clapped us. It was a dream, but it was real.

  ‘Sara, that was wonderful. You really are very talented.’

  And some of the aides standing nearby who’d heard, I could see them nodding and agreeing with him, so I knew it wasn’t just him putting it on.

  ‘Is it true you want to be a singer?’

  All I could do was nod, I was so choked up. I couldn’t believe what was happening!

  ‘You’re going to go a long way with that voice,’ he told me.

  We talked for ages. Don’t ask me about what, I can’t remember most of it. People said after that he sat with me for ages, but I lost all track of time. We talked about all sorts. About each other’s families, about his career, all that sort of thing. And, at the end, he did something special. Very personal. Something that I’m never going to tell anyone. But I’ll tell you, anyway, because this diary is for my eyes only.

  ‘Sara,’ he said. ‘I want to
ask you something. I know what a big thing it is to ask, because people ask me from time to time as well and it always makes me feel awful, so I’d only ask it for a very special reason.’

  ‘What is it?’ I said, and my heart began to beat so hard, it hurt. And the other strange thing, I had a pain here; the place for premonitions. But there was no ghost. Now, what does that mean?

  ‘Sara,’ he said quietly, leaning in to speak softly to me. ‘Sara, show me your face.’

  I couldn’t say no. I just couldn’t say no. All down one side was red and ugly. He was going to get me to show him how ugly I was, but I couldn’t say no to him. And it was right, too, I knew that. Because, to achieve that sort of fame, you have to be prepared to show everything. I felt my hand going up to the mask, but before it got there he put his hand on mine and said, ‘Wait.’

  Then he did it. He stared straight into my eyes and lifted his mask. He lifted up his mask like he never did, not for anyone, and he showed me his face.

  It was awful. Awful, awful, awful! You know those pictures of him when he was young, how lovely he was? And now he was awful. The skin was hanging off, there were bits of it stuck on almost like they’d been glued. I found out later they were grafts, some of it was red raw, some of it was stretched and shiny like it had been burned and healed into loads of scars. With the mask on he looked gorgeous; but underneath – underneath he was a monster. I’d never seen anything like it.

  ‘You see me as I am, Sara,’ he said, looking straight into my eyes. ‘And I did this to myself. Too many operations, too much surgery. At the time I thought I was helping myself, but now I realise that was just an excuse I was hiding behind. I was hurting myself, Sara. I was making myself look ugly because I felt ugly inside. The whole world thought I was beautiful, but I felt ugly. That’s my illness: ugliness. I was more afraid of being ugly than anything in the world, and now I’ve made myself exactly that.’

  He paused for a bit to let it sink in, still staring at me. I was half aware of the ward sister having a conversation with his aides and trying to get past – like he was doing something wrong! – but the aides were getting in her way until he’d finished.

  He put his mask back on. ‘Sara, I believe we’re kindred spirits, you and me,’ he told me. ‘We both love singing and dancing and entertaining people and making them happy. We both want to challenge how people think of themselves. We both want to bring good to the world. We’re both talented, we’re both beautiful, but inside, Sara … Do you think maybe you could be like me? Do we both have some devil who keeps telling us how ugly we are, and sometimes, when we’re feeling weak, we’re stupid enough to believe it? Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  I knew what he meant. He meant that I had hurt myself – that I had put the iron to my face. All I could do was nod. He was describing himself, but he wanted me to be like him and I couldn’t deny him, could I? I couldn’t say he wasn’t like me, even if it was true.

  ‘Sara, show me your face.’ It was a command. I took off my mask.

  He looked at me for a long time. Then he beckoned with a finger to one of his aides, who came over. It was an old guy, he must have been over eighty. Later, I found out it was Dr Kaye. He bent down and examined the burned skin, asked me a few questions.

  At last he nodded. ‘It’s not serious. We can fix that.’

  Jonathon smiled. He looked happy. ‘I was hoping I wasn’t too late,’ he said. And, honestly, you know what? There were real tears in his eyes. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, Sara. I want to help you. I don’t want you to become a monster like me.’

  ‘You’re not a monster,’ I squeaked. But he shook his head.

  ‘It’s possible to turn yourself into a monster, Sara. I’m the living proof of it. I want to help. But first, Sara, I want you to make me a promise.’

  He reached out and laid his hand gently on my cheek.

  ‘This is my face,’ he said, stroking me. ‘When you harm it, you harm me. And these are my hands,’ he said, stroking my hand, which I had lifted up to lay on his. ‘When they harm you, I am harming you.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Accident on purpose?’ He smiled at me but I didn’t answer or even shake my head. I felt that the demon in me was already half healed, but more awake than ever.

  ‘I promise,’ I said. And I knew I’d keep my word.

  What she didn’t know then was what it was she’d really promised.

  Home Manor Farm

  Within the month, Sara had gone to live at Heat’s Cheshire mansion, Home Manor Farm.

  It was all done properly. She was seventeen and regarded herself as her own master, but Heat insisted on getting her mother’s permission. Jessica was all for it. Heat wanted to get her father in on it as well, but Jessica was having none of it.

  ‘Once Tony found out, he’d’ve never let go,’ she said. She was talking about money. Tony Carter was a moderately successful businessman, running a small factory in Wiltshire packaging biscuits and other snacks for the hotel industry. Whether he would have been as predatory as Jessica claimed, we’ll never know, as Heat respected her wishes and kept him very much at arm’s length. A minor figure in all this, Tony Carter’s only significance in Sara’s life is his absence. Heat has used his own brief attempt to get him involved as evidence against the accusation that Sara was kept as isolated as possible at Home Manor Farm while he carried out his crimes.

  Jessica herself was involved, but apart from a short period at the beginning, not at the house. Heat gave her a job that kept her away from her daughter as much as possible, but, in his favour, there is universal agreement that Sara and Jessica together in Heat’s house was not a good idea. Sara obviously didn’t want her mother around and Jessica herself was overexcited and anxious about the whole thing. She may have been jealous, or alarmed. She never felt in control of Sara, and their lives together had been punctured with furious rows for years. She was by all accounts a confirmed flake, with a strong tendency to create a crisis and then go to pieces in it.

  ‘She’d just have made things worse,’ said Janet. ‘She was always getting in the way. And if Sara did want her she’d just get cross. They loved one another, I suppose, but they didn’t get on terribly well. I just don’t think she understood Sara at all.’

  Which isn’t terribly surprising since no one else does, either.

  It’s certainly true that Jessica had very little respect for the things that Janet herself valued her friend for – her incredible imagination and flights of fancy.

  ‘She told lies about everything from a very early age,’ Jessica told Wow! magazine later on. ‘Who broke this jug? It was the cat, Mummy. Who’s been in my make-up bag? A little girl came to the door and said she had something for you so I let her upstairs; it must have been her, Mummy. She’d tell you something absolutely ridiculous and be mortally offended if you didn’t take her seriously. Who smashed my bedroom mirror, who tore up my nightie?

  ‘It wasn’t me, Mummy. it wasn’t me. it was the gnomes who live under the bed. They said they’d behave and I believed them!’

  The tension between mother and daughter was tangible. Heat sent Jessica off to do location work with a film project he was developing. She spent most of the next weeks travelling around the world to exotic destinations, staying in nice hotels and being paid a lot of money for doing it. Despite her complaints about being separated from her daughter, Jessica seemed very happy with the arrangement at the time.

  Even before Sara moved in, Heat was making plans for her future. Of course there would be records – a single, an album, and a video to go with it. There would be photo shoots. The fashion photographer Tiffany Gray was brought in within days to take the first shots. There would be dance lessons, singing lessons, every sort of lesson – some of them with Heat himself.

  And there would be surgery. Heat wanted her face fixed as soon as possible.

  Surprisingly, Sara was not so keen on this. Although she had been t
erribly upset when she had burned her face, she had almost come to like it. The burn was healing quickly and leaving behind a neat triangular patch of tight red skin, which she rapidly integrated as a part of her appearance. She sometimes painted another matching triangle on the other side and later, as the skin healed, she coloured the scar or decorated it in other ways.

  ‘It’s kinda African, don’t you think? Sort of punk,’ she told Heat, who apparently had to turn away, he was so upset, even though he had made a similar sort of aesthetic popular himself. Things had changed. A man whose face had been utterly destroyed, he couldn’t bear the thought that someone with such good looks was prepared to miss a chance to restore herself, Sara, paradoxically, remained very keen on having her breasts re-sculpted, work done on her nose and cheekbones, which she regarded as not well-defined enough, as well as something done about the fat on her thighs. But she wasn’t at all sure about getting the scar fixed. Heat argued she might as well get her scar sorted while the rest of it was done. He got so agitated she agreed after various members of his staff intervened on his behalf.

  ‘She was just winding him up if you ask me,’ one of them said later on.

  ‘It was the least she could do,’ added someone else. Heat’s generosity was legendary, and in return his staff were famous for their loyalty. By and large, the least you could do was anything possible.