Dead Lucky

by Andreina Cordani

Genres: Young Adult; YA Mysteries & Thrillers

Synopsis

Lucky to be rich. Lucky to be famous. Lucky to be alive.

Xav, Ed, Leni, Maxine.

They are the influencers, the lucky ones. Gifted, gilded people who have everything - fame, respect, adulation, more freebies than they can ever unbox. Their lives, loves and feuds are shared with millions of fans on the streaming platform PlayMii, and they are living the dream.

But it's broken Ed's heart.

It's crushing Maxine.

It's destroying Leni's friendships.

And it's gone to Xav's head.

Then, a masked figure walks into Xav's apartment and murders him on camera.

As the world reels with shock, Maxine discovers Xav was sitting on a file of secrets about his fellow creators - career-destroying secrets that they'd do anything to keep hidden. And if she doesn't find the file, she could be next . . .

Release date: January 13, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

By the time the video was taken down, three million people had watched Xav Bailey’s murder.

The post is an unusual one for Xav these days – no stunts, no laughing hangers-on – but it’s still on-brand for him. Every now and again he shares classic-style intimate chats-to-camera and they often get better views than some of his crazier ones – people like to get the feeling they are seeing the real Xav.

He’s sitting at the desk in his apartment; the shelves behind him are as messy as ever with piles of graphic novels, gadgets, game packages and bits of memorabilia jammed in tight together. Chaotic mess was always Xav’s style, but over the years the disorder has become staged – that bobble-head figure ‘carelessly’ shoved front and centre is tied into a game he’s been sponsored to promote. And the coffee mug, emblazoned with the words Ed’s Tears, is nothing less than cruel.

Xav is wearing a white T-shirt made by an edgy, cult Korean brand – the logo on it is so small and discreet you would have to know what you were looking for to see it, a dog-whistle signal for a certain kind of hipster. His shoulders look broad in it; tanned biceps strain the fabric of the sleeves ever so slightly. Xav always had the balance just right between having a tight, toned body and looking too ripped. His skin, as ever, is amazing. But the most striking thing about Xav is the aura of confidence about him, shining out brighter than his shirt. You might think it’s the kind of self-assurance that comes with millions of viewers hanging on your every post, with sponsorship deals, celebrity link-ups and hot and cold Korean shirts on tap. But he’s always been like this. He knows exactly who he is and where he should be and the effect pulls people towards him like iron filings to a magnet. You see that fun, laid-back smile and you want it to shine on you. Even when you know what he’s really like.

There’s no messing around at the beginning of Xav’s videos, and he’s talking fast: as we all know, those first fifteen seconds of content are everything. As he talks, reeling off a brutal review, he’s waving the case of another game.

‘OK, the headline is this: it’s bad. Really bad. It’s time we invented minus stars for games this catastrophically awful. What’s the opposite of a star? Oh yes, a black hole. This piece of crap gets five black holes from me – and let’s hope it gets sucked into one of them, never to return …’

As he throws the game case over his shoulder, there’s a sound behind him, a flicker of movement, and he looks up mid-rant, a flash of confusion on his face. He leans back slightly and we can see the room behind him a little more. That’s when we get our first glimpse of it. Of the face.

Oh God, that face would haunt us all, millions of us, for months to come. A rubber mask, grotesque and swollen, the mouth a twisted, red-raw grin, the skin a sick, yellowish-white colour, bulbous and knotted in some places, skull-like in others. A warped mask, horrifically unreal.

We jump from the shock but common sense tells us this is a set-up, one of Xav’s acolytes winding us all up again. We wonder what Xav will say next and prepare to be entertained.

True to form, Xav’s reaction is a bit more calculated now. He’s not as good an actor as he thinks he is.

‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Oh God, no …’

The figure grabs him roughly, black-clad arms around his shoulders, gripping his jaw and pressing his head against its chest. Xav doesn’t fight back, but a look of annoyance crosses his face.

‘Hey, the hair! The hair!’

Xav doesn’t see the knife until it’s too late and there’s no time for him to react. The sound is bad on this part; all we can hear is a grunt, a cry and then a kind of sigh.

The figure stands, and for the first time you see the knife in its gloved hand – a sharp kitchen knife, the kind that costs a fortune and goes through steak like butter. It’s not a stage knife; it’s very shiny and sharp and slick with red. The figure leans forward until its disgusting leer fills the entire shot, until you can almost see the glimmer of the screen reflecting in the creature’s eyes, deep-set and almost completely hidden by the mask. There is a human being inside this monster. Then some animated text appears across the screen – the same style and font Xav always uses. But this time it’s not a wisecrack or a link or a #spon alert.

The words say: He deserved it.

And the words say: This is real.

At first, nobody could quite believe what they’d seen. After all, Xav’s pranks often cross the line between funny and tasteful and, a couple of months before, he’d pranked his hangers-on by faking his own kidnapping. So it’s hardly surprising that the first people who watched it thought it was some kind of sick joke. They shared it anyway.

The comments below start off mildly.

Whoa …

Xav, mate, you’ve gone too far again …

WTF is this?!?!?!

But then the real fans, the serious fans, noticed that something was off about it. Where was Xav’s usual sign-off? The end screen links? Or his cheery, ever-present: ‘If you like what you see, don’t forget to leave a comment, like, share and follow!’ The camerawork was static, when his earlier kidnap video had been shot from several different angles and edited beautifully.

It only took a few minutes for someone, a slightly-more-awake person somewhere in the American Midwest, to write: Holy crap. This is real.

And share it.

And the only way people could decide for themselves was to watch it again, ask their friends what they thought, share it again. PlayMii stepped in as fast as it could, took the whole thing down, but by then viewing numbers had rocketed, bootlegs had been made and shared, passed around chats, message groups, schools and colleges, with fake reverence and real shock. Fans were horrified, fascinated; the mainstream media went absolutely batshit. And Xav, so famous in life, became even more famous in death. The first PlayMeep to be murdered on screen, in the most ghoulish, chilling way imaginable.

He would have loved it, but he was gone.

Maxine, one day before

This is amazing. It’s flipping ridiculous. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so terrified because what else am I supposed to do? I’m on a stage. A freaking stage. Every time I do this I think there must have been some kind of mistake, this many people can’t be here just for me – this is crazy.

I’ve never been in a Hollywood movie, I’ve never won an Olympic medal or done any whizzy, science-y thing. In fact, some days it’s a struggle to tie my shoes. Should I live to be a hundred and still be posting on PlayMii, I don’t think I’ll get over the fact that people care enough to buy tickets to an event and travel all the way across the country, just so they can meet me.

It’s an incredible feeling, but right now it’s not good-incredible, it’s scary as hell, because this isn’t the same as when nice people sidle up to you in the supermarket and ask for a selfie. This is a crowd. I can’t make out individual faces and when I look down, all I can see is a forest of raised hands holding hundreds of sparkly-covered phones pointed right up at me. Little details jump out – a rainbow-print sweater-sleeve, sequinned bangles on a masculine wrist, the light glinting off someone’s incredible bejewelled nails. If I met each one of these people by themselves, I’d be totally up for a hug, a pic and a chat, but all together in one big lump they are, frankly, terrifying.

My stomach backflips – the Danish pastries from the green room are threatening to come back up again. The lights are make-up-meltingly hot and now I’m even hotter because a lava-like wave of panic is flooding through my body. Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.

I bite nervously at one of my cuticles, then stop myself and take an awkward step forward, tottering like that GIF of Bambi on ice. Mum was right, these heels were a mistake. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her – she is also pointing a camera at me from the wings and mouthing something like: ‘Come on, Max, get it together.’

Her camera-free hand is waving at something centre-stage and for the first time I see there are two stools there. One already has a blond male interviewer in a flowered shirt sitting in it; the other one is clearly meant for me.

High stools. Another surge of dread wells up inside. When you’re five-foot-nothing, a stool can be a major mountain to climb, even when you’re not on a stage with hundreds of people staring up at you.

Somehow, I manage to slither my bum on to the smooth seat, but I can’t fully push myself up without losing my dignity. Note to self: short dresses and high stools – not a good combo. What underwear am I wearing? I can’t remember but hope it’s decent, because five hundred people and their followers are all about to see it.

And as I struggle, that familiar old feeling takes over. Stupid Maxine. Can’t even get on a stool. What a moron.

Some members of the audience are laughing awkwardly, unsure if they are supposed to – PlayMii fans really are a supportive bunch in the main.

But the sound of those giggles makes something click inside me. These people know me. They know I’m not a slick media professional. I’m the same clumsy, chaotic, leopard-print-loving idiot they see on PlayMii every day. The one who didn’t realise you were supposed to take the plastic casing off the Peperami before eating it, or who genuinely thought Milton Keynes was an American soap actor. Hell, most of them have seen my underpants already – albeit drying on the radiator in one of my earlier bedroom vlogs.

Sod it.

I am stupid bloody Maxine. Take me or leave me, I’m not changing.

I drop any attempt at dignity and clamber up awkwardly until I’m on, so that when I’m finally perched up next to the interviewer, knees clamped primly together and feet crossed at the ankles, everyone in the room is laughing. In a friendly laughing-with rather than laughing-at kind of way.

Now get a grip, I tell myself. The panic has dulled to a steady thud-thud in my chest and, provided I don’t lift my arms, nobody will see the stress-sweat patches under the arms of my dress. And at least now I think I can trust myself to speak without my voice going all wobbly and pathetic.

‘Good old Maxine.’ The presenter smirks. ‘We can always trust you to make an entrance! And just to kick off … go on, say it!’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’ I shake my head, my face flushing hot again as the interviewer begs and the audience begins to chant ‘SAY IT! SAY IT! SAY IT!’

I laugh – it’s the only defence I have. There’s no squirming out of this one; I’ll have to say it. But I can’t keep the reluctance from my voice.

‘I love horror films, they’re really maccabree.’

Everyone erupts into laughter and once again I wonder if I’ll ever be able to live down this slip of the tongue I’d made in a video aeons ago. I’d only ever seen the word macabre written down – how was I know it was pronounced mac-aaah-ber?

As the whoops die down, flowered-shirt guy starts on the proper questions. ‘So, you started out at fifteen, making prank videos with a few school friends we might possibly have heard of.’ He pauses as the audience laughs knowingly. ‘And now look at you! Views of your explainers are skyrocketing, you’re best mates with super-successful PlayMeeps Xav Bailey and leni-loves, and rumour has it there’s an exciting new merch in the pipeline. You’re one lucky gal, right?’

I know what he’s expecting me to say – the speech every online creator makes when we’re asked about it. But it’s that word, lucky, that grates with me.

Because yes, I am lucky. The kind of lucky that’s busted my butt making a video every day for nearly three years. The kind of lucky that sleeps for five hours a night and wakes up at first light, my mind buzzing through ever-more elaborate ideas, only half of which are physically possible. Lucky that I’m so famous, people make memes about the shape of my thighs which had me shooting videos from the neck up for weeks – until the comments on my double chin started to appear. Lucky that I’ve forgotten what my face feels like without make-up as I can’t leave my room without it. The kind of lucky where I can’t relax, can’t breathe, can’t stop picking, picking, picking at the skin on the little finger of my right hand until it bleeds, until it scars …

I force back the surge of pressure and think about the good things. That dizzy, light-headed feeling when you see the views and likes start to climb on one of your videos, second by second. The ridiculous, expensive freebies that land on my doorstep every day. How it feels when people you don’t even know send you birthday presents and friendly fashion advice, or hug you in the street, crying and telling you that you changed their life. Because of all this, it’s worth it. It’s worth the 24–7 always-switched-on madness, the late nights, the corporate PR fakery that gets thrown at you, the sheer terror of messing up, of making an army of people angry by accidentally saying something stupid and thoughtless or using the wrong tone of voice. It’s worth it because this is what I always wanted to do, where I always wanted to be.

‘What can I say? I’m the luckiest girl alive.’ I smile, and I feel the warmth of the audience rising up, enveloping me. ‘The idea that millions of people are watching my videos when I’m just chatting away to a camera in my bedroom, it’s …’ I make a little mind: blown gesture next to my head.

There are whoops and cheers from the crowd and I realise I’m smiling. A nervous, toothy smile, but still, the cheering helps.

‘So,’ flower shirt guy goes on with a knowing look, ‘was this part of your all-conquering five-year plan to take over the internet?’

Everyone laughs again. If there’s one thing people know about me it’s that planning and smart moves are not my thing. Mum and Carl handle the business stuff; I just make goofy videos and hope for the best. I shrug in a what can I do? kind of way and wait for the laughter to die down. It stings a little but that’s OK. Mum says ditzy is my brand, that I need to accept it and work with it.

‘Well, there wasn’t actually a plan,’ I say. ‘The people who start out wanting to make money and get loads of sponsorship deals never make it, do they? People can smell that kind of fake a mile away. But when I first started out with Leni and Ed and, yes, with Xav …’ A small ‘boo’ comes from the back of the room at the sound of Xav’s name. But I press on: ‘When we started out, none of us expected to get this far. We were just having a laugh, like everyone else on there, and that’s what makes great PlayMii content – real, normal people having fun, sharing silly things and laughing. That’s why, even if I woke up tomorrow with no subscribers at all, I’ll always be part of this community.’

A hungry look has appeared on the interviewer’s face and there’s a feeling in my stomach like a stone dropping. I’ve mentioned Xav, which means I’ve given him permission to go there – to talk about him and Ed and The Drama and everything Xav has done since.

From the corner of my eye I can see Mum shaking her head in frustration. Easy for her. She’s not sweating it out on this stage.

When the questions come, they’re fired at me like machine-gun ammo.

‘And what’s the deal with you and Xav? When did you last speak to him? Do you condone the way he’s been acting? Would you still call him a friend?’

My first reaction is a big fat fuck-you. Is he really expecting me to spill my guts on stage? Take down a friend just because he’s made a few bad decisions, and yes, OK, possibly turned into a bit of a monster?

But then, spilling my guts is what I do. My fam expects me to be honest, which is why it’s easier never to say anything about Xav and Ed and the whole Drama at all. There’s just too much to hide. What to do, what to do …

‘I haven’t seen Xav in a long while,’ I say finally. ‘He and Leni are so busy doing their thing – filming, feuding, whatever – they’re about a million times more successful than me. I know he’s been a bit of a dick lately, but I also know he’s going through a bad time and …’ and I have no idea how to finish that sentence.

So I don’t. I leave it hanging, knowing that even those few lines will be picked up, pared down, dissected and spliced back together into a thousand memes and GIFs before I’ve even finished signing autographs and posing for selfies. I’ve just called Xav, one of my oldest, formerly closest friends, a bit of a dick in public.

I think about the last flurry of video messages from him – so many I haven’t even had time to open them all – and the guilt kicks in. I told the truth: I haven’t seen him face to face in a long, long time, but I still know he’s in pain. Self-inflicted pain, but still, that always was Xav’s thing.

I try to calm myself as I walk back down the corridor to the green room, thinking about nabbing another Danish.

But as I walk in, I can sense the atmosphere in there has changed. There’s a crackle and zing in the air; people are moving and speaking like something is energising them. Then I hear his voice. A ghost of a high from the past wells up: the flutter of anxiety, the desperation to make him laugh and the brilliant high that rockets through you when you do.

And there he is, Xav Bailey, relaxing in full manspreading glory, taking up the whole of the cheap two-seater sofa. There’s an adoring array of fans perched on the arms, the table and even the floor around him. I saw a TV documentary once about a pride of lions and he reminds me of this. A big alpha male lolling around, yawning and being fed by the rest of the pride, but still all muscular power, able to spring up and savage any rival who shows their face. Xav is wearing a close-fitting striped T-shirt; the ends of his exquisitely sculpted hair are highlighted in about thirty different strands of gold, but the colour peters out into brown. He likes to let his roots show. He looks relaxed, at ease, but I know he’s heard what I just said. Someone would have told him.

Style it out, I tell myself. If I apologise, it’ll only make him worse.

His smile is easy and broad, flashing those beautiful white teeth. He catches sight of me and suddenly his whole body is motion. He’s on his feet.

‘Maxi-Pad!’ He smiles, arms outstretched. ‘You OK, hun?’

‘Dickie! I’m all good.’ I smile and hold out my arms; we join in the most insincere hug in history. I know it’s being filmed but what can I do about it? Everything’s being filmed.

I realise I’m back to the trembling thing again and I wonder if he can feel it. He leans out of the hug, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

‘Wow, Brutus Maximus, you stink of BO.’

I had forgotten the sweat patches. His acolytes cackle, all except for the shy, gawky one at the end. I’ve always had a soft spot for Ethan, the PlayMii superfan, even though he once confessed to going through Leni’s recycling looking for ‘souvenirs’.

Xav’s face softens then and he laughs – he’s decided to go easy on me today.

‘Come, come, sit, sit! What’s the crowd like out there? Are there any of those Team Ed wankers I need to look out for? What about Leni-Stans?’

‘Only one boo when I said your name, you should be safe,’ I say, squeezing in next to him and homing in on the pastries. Xav makes a little pout of disappointment, as if he was looking forward to heckles and fights. He sighs and rips open a bag of M&Ms.

‘Hey, Ethan, open your mouth,’ Xav says. Ethan drops his jaw like an obedient lapdog and Xav starts taking pot-shots at him with the sweets.

‘Your turn, Maxi,’ he says, holding out the bag. I hesitate and the distaste must be showing on my face.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Ethan’s reedy voice pipes up. ‘It’s a laugh, isn’t it?’

Xav’s next M&M hits its target perfectly and, while Ethan is busy coughing and spluttering, Xav turns to me. He leans in close and I can smell coffee breath, see the tiny bit of stubble which he missed shaving this morning. And I can see his mask slip. I glimpse the tired, angry Xav who sends me messages late at night: God, Max, this business sucks … I’m falling apart …

Xav grabs my arm, squeezes it until it starts to hurt.

‘Maxine, it’s time,’ he murmurs, quietly so his entourage doesn’t hear. ‘Time to burn it all down.’

I hesitate, flustered, not sure if this is banter, or if we’ve entered a whole new territory here. There’s a look on his face, a fleck of bitter rage in his voice that I’ve never heard before. But then his eyes flit away from me and a woman with a clipboard hovers nervously into view.

‘Um, Xav?’ She says the name with hesitant respect, like there’s an unspoken ‘Mister’ before it. ‘You do know you’re up now? They’ve been waiting a while.’

Xav’s groan is mixed with a yawn and a stretch, then he’s on his feet. ‘No peace for the beautiful. See you later, Max Factor!’

He’s gone, and the room is greyer and smaller without him, but I can breathe more easily.

Mum appears at my side, back from the Ladies and ready to rush me to our meeting with the stationery people. Her face has that cross look it gets whenever she sees Xav.

‘Honestly, I don’t know why you let him get to you,’ she says, which irritates me because I thought I’d done a good job of hiding it. She looks down the corridor after him, shaking her head. ‘One of these days, that boy is going to get himself in real trouble.’

Maxine, one day before

My mind is still on Xav as Mum whisks me smoothly from the green room to another meeting room nearby. I swear it feels like she’s holding my hand, leading me along like a toddler. But I know. . .