This Is Going To Ruin The Tour

Chapter 1

Enwog - Famous

Rhys

Being the bodyguard of the world’s most famous pop star has its perks. Sometimes. Mostly it's bloody annoying.

My Jaguar I-Pace – a perk since it’s paid for by said pop star – rolls to a stop at the top of the red carpet.

Perfectly aligned with the rear passenger door.

Richie’s the only guy I’d trust driving this thing.

He’s a fucking lifesaver. Nobody wants to go out in this weather, in the middle of a storm with the rain blowing in sideways.

His precision means we can step out of the car and under the awning, minimising the soaking we’d get.

‘Fuck me. Everyone and their dad’s shown today, Rhys,’ he tells me from the front.

I lean across the back seat, and groan at the hordes standing exposed in the rain.

Generic plates and tinted windows are supposed to stop them from working out who’s in the car.

It’s the whole reason I don’t have something flashier to drive around in.

Fans have a different awareness about them, though.

Sight of the car is enough to prod life into the legions waiting at the metal barricades.

Cai’s here. A switch flips. The hive mind acts, springing into action.

Muffled screams seep through the thick bulletproof glass, and they surge forward, like a team of vampires hungry for their next meal.

They used to terrify me when I was new to this world.

Now I remind myself it’s not me they’re after and, mostly, they won’t do anything to hurt him.

I meet Cai’s gaze across the backseat, a silent question to check he’s ready for the circus. He raises his left eyebrow at me, beaming. ‘Bring it on.’

Here we go a-damn-gain.

I swing my door open, and the racket builds. I’m not the celeb they’re after, but they know who I am, unfortunately. I follow exactly one step behind Cai at all times, always in the shadows. Which is where I like to lurk.

I round the trunk to his side of the car.

The chill of the blustery evening seeps through my leather jacket along with the rain.

Gonna be a cold one. Weather like this should scare away the crowds waiting for Cai, but if anything, it makes them feral, more greedy for him. Maybe it’s a way of keeping warm.

I pause with my hand on the car door, my fingers moulding into the bite of the metal handle, and check down the carpet. Although I might want to get this over and done with so I can get out of the rain and stop getting soaked, I’ve a job to do, and it needs doing properly.

It’s tricky to see past the strobe flash of the cameras.

The paparazzi are even worse than the fans.

The competition to get the best shot of Cai sliding out of the car started before we got here.

They jostle for the snap that’ll make them the most money, and they won’t stop until they get it. Fucking vultures.

Nothing’s out of the ordinary. No breaks in the barriers, nobody standing like a weirdo while the rest of the crowd loses their shit.

None of the security guards spaced along the fence have their hands in their pockets, and I don’t recognise anyone in the middle of the hundreds of people waiting to tell my best mate how much they adore him.

The umbrellas raised in protection from the misty rain could cause a problem, though.

They could hide the asshole sending Cai threatening letters.

It’s amazing how well a scrap of black polyester can conceal someone in a crowd.

Should be banned, really. Who has enough arms to hold an umbrella, a phone, and all the shit they want their favourite performer to sign?

If we got umbrellas on the do-not-bring list, it would make my job easier. And I’m all for a simple life.

Richie rolls down the window.

‘Cheers, butt,’ I tell him. ‘Give you a buzz when we’re ready later, yeah? Don’t go too far.’

He gives me a thumbs up, then shuts himself away from the cold and the rain.

One deep breath, a shake of the wet off my shoulders, and I open the car door.

The crowd goes fucking ballistic. They chant Cai’s name, each time louder and more intense than the last, their cheers rattling around my skull.

The fans press forward, grinding the barriers along the pavement, grins slashing across their faces like horrific puppets.

Absolutely starving for a glimpse of him, and the anticipation only feeds their blood lust.

He waits a tiny bit longer, letting them whip themselves into a bigger frenzy.

I may hate the limelight, but he thrives on it.

His loyal worshippers keep him at the top of the charts year after year, ever since his first single hit number one ten bloody years ago.

All of this makes sure his success’ll carry on for the next decade at least.

Only when the screams can be heard from Wembley to Cardiff does he slide out of the car. He unfurls long limbs and lifts a hand to greet his fans. The dickhead stays in the tiny gap between the car and the awning, probably soaking up the atmosphere but also soaking up most of the rain too.

‘Get under the fucking cover, idiot.’ I give him a push in the right direction. If he gets a cold and can’t perform, I’ll never hear the end of it.

The crowd’s reduced to a mob of savages. They surge forward, testing the barriers to their absolute max. Arms stretch out, thrusting photos, dolls, CDs – who the hell listens to CDs anymore – at him for signing.

I shout in Cai’s ear, ‘I swear this swarm gets bigger every year.’

‘It’s for charity, mate. They love it.’ A brown curl flops onto his forehead and defies his half-arsed attempt to put it back in place.

When he hit the scene – late at twenty-six – the press called him the Welsh Elvis – before the drugs and the burger addiction got to the King of Rock ‘N’ Roll.

The older Cai gets, the more I can see it.

It won’t be long until he gets fat. I’m well on my way there, too, though my image is a lot less important.

Best make sure we stay away from the drugs.

‘Charity. Yeah. Nothing to do with the world’s best-selling pop star being here.’

‘Where? Where’s Topaz?’ he replies, his hand raised to his eyes in mock search. We all know his ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be seen dead on a red carpet alongside him. Probably turned up an hour early to avoid it.

I give him another shove along the aisle, and he goes willingly, laughing.

Our amble to the stadium door is the longest of my life. He gives the fans what they’re desperate for, bouncing from one side of the barricade to the other, pausing at every single bloody person.

A woman stops him to tell him how his latest single gave her the courage to declare her undying love for her colleague.

A man whose every word stinks of stale coffee has been learning how to play Cariad Cymraeg, Cai’s biggest-selling single.

Cai signs, stops for photographs, laughs and hugs anyone who leans over the barrier with arms wide open.

I stay one step behind him the whole time, watching the sky for changes in the weather, the crowd for anyone suspicious, the door with longing.

It’s important to give him the time to get to speak to most of the fans.

Otherwise, he’ll be called a snob online.

But we also have a schedule to stick to, a miss-it-and-miss-out slot for his soundcheck. Gethin’ll kill me if we’re not there.

The rest of the team will be waiting inside for Cai, and I always get the blame if we take too long. Mind you, if we were on time, there’d be something else to be mad about and Gethin’d find a way to blame me for that too.

Every so often, I poke Cai along. We skip past a middle-aged woman who should know better, and she thrusts her head out from the crowd. ‘Wait! You forgot about me. I wanted this signed for my daughter.’

Her daughter? Yeah fucking right. More like for her. They tug at his heartstrings every damn time and it always bloody works.

I spot the signs he’s gonna backtrack – the twitch of his arm to pivot, the focusing in on the person who’s managed to get his attention – and place my hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward.

‘But what about her daughter?’ He whines.

‘We’ve soundcheck in a bit. You need to get a move on.’

He grumbles about it but keeps going in the right direction. She’ll get over the snub and will be at the next concert or signing if she’s desperate to get something for her daughter. Cai’s at everything and the fans are always there, always waiting for him.

The stadium doors yawn open for us, close, yet so fucking far away.

A warm glow casts over the top of the carpet, bringing light to the end of the October gloom.

It beckons to me like a siren, but it’s not like I can zip ahead to get away from the stench of hundreds of sweaty bodies.

He’s not at risk – the worst this lot will do is slobber all over him – but I’d look unprofessional if I left him to it.

Sometimes, on days when the crowd gets a little too annoying and he’s taking way too long, intrusive thoughts fill my head.

I like to imagine him getting dragged to the floor by the hordes, all of them keen to gouge a piece out of him for a keepsake, like zombies clamouring for brains.

The picture keeps me sane when I’m fed up with it all.

Reminds me I do serve a purpose in the big pop star machine.

A wiry arm shoots out from the group, its fingers snatching towards Cai’s ear. Shit. I swat at it with enough force to scare them off, but not too hard to hurt them. Most of them don’t mean any harm; they’re just overenthusiastic. That was a little too close for comfort, though.

‘Try not to break anyone’s arms today, butt,’ Cai warns, his voice too light and chirpy to sound like a proper telling off. He wouldn’t dare.

‘Just looking after you.’ I turn my head to meet a gust of wind, hoping it blows away my cobwebs so I can refocus on the crowd. A few hundred more people, then we can get inside.