James loosened the belt and I managed at last to get to my feet. He handed me a large threadbare towel and I began to wipe myself. The big ginger tom appeared from under the bed and began to rub up against Fat Mary’s shin. The door, which James had only managed to pull to behind him, flew open and a flurry of icy snow whirled round the room, hissed on the range. Tom disappeared under the bed again.
‘We’d better get back to school,’ said James. He pulled the knife out of Fat Mary’s throat, wiped it on a sheet. I suppose he’s still got it. If he’s still around. It all happened fifty years ago, half a century.
‘You should wash up as well as you can so no blood gets on your clothes,’ he went on. ‘There’s no reason for anyone to know we were here.’
He was right. It was two days before she was found - the first to call was a gamekeeper drawn by the lowing of cows that had not been milked and the bellows of a sow that had not been fed and whose litter was, by then, too big to eat.
* * * *
Julian Rathbone published his first book in 1967 and says he has lost count of those published in the intervening two decades, although it is of the order of twenty-five novels, mostly thrillers with a broadly political/green or social slant. There are also some literary/historical works (two of which were shortlisted for the Booker Prize), a handful of short stories, scripts for German television movies and some poetry; but until now, no horror fiction. His most recent novels, Intimacy and Blame Hitler, are both published by Gollancz. ‘“Fat Mary”,’ Rathbone says, ‘started life as the black episode in an erotic picaresque novel that really got no further than the planning stage before being ditched. Reworking the basic idea (a sort of Hansel and Gretel) I realized I was tapping some half-remembered fantasy from boarding school days, back in the 1950s. Fantasy, but with a germ of fact in there somewhere too? At all events, I have welcomed the chance horror brings of breaking out of a too narrowly naturalistic approach to fiction writing. Having also recently concluded forty years of over-indulgence in booze, I was relieved to find whilst writing “Fat Mary” that the Muse does not necessarily need priming with alcohol before delivering the goods.’
<
* * * *
The Last Reel
DENNIS ETCHINSON
As soon as I saw her face, I knew where I was.
I’d been lost in the canyons, looking for a sign, and after a while all I wanted was out. I couldn’t even read the map book. The dome light flickered like a firefly in a jar and the streetlamps were hidden behind a scrim of leaves and branches. If there really was a street called Rose Petal Lane I couldn’t find it.
Then I made the turn on to Sierra Vista and there she was, bigger than life.
It was hard to judge distances but she must have been about a half-mile away, floating through the darkness over the trees that pointed towards the old reservoir at the top. From here I figured her face was at least ten feet tall, which made her mouth roughly the size of an open manhole. I didn’t want to think about the rest of her. But I had come this far - what was the point in turning back now?
I downshifted, grinding gears, and kept moving.
The sky grew bright with the glow of her skin and the waterfall of blonde hair around her face. Her head bobbed up and down like a flesh-coloured Zeppelin looking for a place to land. As I got closer there were other colours too, drifting in and out of a long beam of light trained on the reservoir wall. The numbers were worn off the curb but I knew I had found Donn Hedgeman’s house. Who else would use the side of the Stone River Dam for a movie screen? I’d heard that his parties were legendary. The man had outdone himself this time.
I had to park halfway back down the canyon. Porsches and Jags and Mercedes-Benzes were wedged across every driveway between here and Sunset. Walking up, I saw two college boys in red vests on one of the sidestreets, waving flashlights like ushers at a movie premiere. Somehow I had missed the valet parking. It was just as well. My Toyota hadn’t been washed in months.
On foot, I could have found Donn’s house with my eyes closed. It was only eight o’clock but already the voices were so loud they might have been screaming, trapped in the canyon and magnified by the concrete dam at the end. Over the top of a redwood fence I noticed a sea of blonde coifs, all the same colour as the one in the sky. I opened the gate and let myself into the backyard, looking around for Donn.
‘Skippy!’
I ignored the voice and kept walking as if I knew where I was going. There was a kidney-shaped swimming pool lit by underwater floodlights, and a pink shape wavered near the bottom, distorted by the ripples. A group of men gathered around the edge, some in jackets and ties, others in T-shirts and jeans. They cheered as the swimmer surfaced, borne up by an inflated life jacket. Then I realized there was no life jacket. It was her breasts that were inflated. She arched her body, as if hoping to thrust her nipples high enough to catch the beam of the projector, then threw her head back and dove again, the polished lips of her vagina cleaving the water. The men hooted and applauded. I worked my way around the pool, and headed across the patio.
‘Skippy?’
There was a burst of flashguns inside the house, turning the glass walls of the rec room blue-white. I spotted a man with huge, frizzy hair next to a billiard table, surrounded by photographers. It had to be Donn.
Now someone grabbed my arm. I felt it caught between two balloons, as if held there by static electricity. I tried to shake them off and glanced over my shoulder.
A stunningly beautiful young woman clutched my arm to her bosom. Her vinyl dress was cut so low it looked like two bald men were trying to fight their way out the front.
‘You are!’ She got a look at my face and dug her long black fingernails into my sweater. ‘I knew it. . .!’
‘Hi.’
‘I had the biggest crush on you!’ She did not want to let go of my arm. ‘You were a lot cuter than that other dude, the one who played your brother . . .’
‘Tony.’
I could have told her all about Tony Sargent. How he ended up with a habit so big he couldn’t get a job pushing a broom at the studio, how he started knocking off liquor stores with his old lady’s pantyhose pulled over his head, and how he blew his brains out the night she o.d.’d on the last of his smack. I didn’t want to burst her bubble. The show had been out of production since the late seventies but the reruns wouldn’t quit. As far as she was concerned I was still Skippy Boomer. She was not alone. At least she hadn’t asked for my autograph. Not yet.
‘Was that his name?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘A great guy.’ I nodded at the rec room, the way I learned to do it in acting class: the gesture first, then the line. ‘Is that Donn?’
‘Which one was he?’
‘The Hedge Man,’ I said. ‘This is his party, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Her face fell and I thought I caught a glimpse of something fading out behind the layers of make-up, something almost sad. Then she blinked at me, fluttering her false eyelashes. ‘You know Donn?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘He’s such a trip! I’d work for him any time...’
‘Excuse me,’ I told her, retrieving my arm. ‘I have to say hello.’
I made my way across the patio. The actress in the sky was emoting with mounting fervour, closing her shiny eyelids and tossing her head from side to side as if lost in an opium dream, but no one seemed to be watching. I saw an old theatre projector set up on the buffet table, with several film cans stacked next to it. The reel that was on now appeared to be near its end. I opened the sliding glass door and slipped inside, as the tail of the film clattered on to the takeup spool and the beam of light went white.
Donn was in the middle of an interview. A man with tattooed arms and a baseball cap squinted into a Hi-8 video-cam and stammered through a list of prepared questions, while three ridiculously gorgeous women stood on the sidelines and laughed at each of Donn’s jokes. He was the centre of attention, as always.
<
br /> ‘What’s your next project?’ I heard the young man ask.
‘Magic Fingers Motel, for Vulcano Video.’
The women whooped and clapped their hands.
‘Starring?’
‘Lo Ryder,’ said Donn without missing a beat, ‘Charmin, Kerry O’Quim...How’s that for a cast? Did I leave anyone out?’
‘Rosie Gates!’ shouted a beauty in leather hotpants.
Donn snapped his fingers and nodded, rolling his eyes. ‘Yeah, Rosie! Wait’ll you see the tush on that girl! I met her at the FOXE Awards. Says d.p.’s not enough - she wants to do triple penetration! Maybe I’ll let Rocco break her in!’
The gorgeous women cracked up.
‘Anything else?’
‘Lemme see. The Ram Doubler, Seven Come Eleven, Close Shavers Part Two, another Bun Boy’s Big Adventure . . . and of course WetWork, starring the fabulous Celestine Prophet!’
Donn shot a glance outside. Now only an empty square of light showed in the sky.
‘What the fuck?’ He put his hand up, blocking the lens of the camera. ‘That’s a wrap.’
He brushed past me on his way out to the patio.
‘Hey, Skipper,’ he said under his breath. ‘Stay right where you are. We got business to talk about. . .’
The gorgeous women started out after him. A fourth, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, had been lingering in the background, watching from the hallway. Now she stepped out of the shadows and followed tentatively, as though afraid to be seen. She hesitated by the door.
‘Pardon me,’ she said shyly, ‘but can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Are . . . are you an actor?’
Busted again. ‘I used to be.’
‘I thought so.’ She kept her head down, too nervous to meet my eyes. ‘The Boomer Family was my favourite, when I was little.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and almost meant it.
She didn’t look like she belonged at the party. She had on a simple summer dress with a high neckline and low-heeled pumps, no jewellery except for a small gold heart on a chain around her neck and hardly any make-up. She didn’t need it. She stood there with me and watched the commotion outside.
Donn was flapping his arms and chewing out a guy in ragged cut-offs who was supposed to be running the projector. For a moment I thought he was going to slap the kid across the face, in front of everyone.
‘What’s your name?’ I said.
‘Charlene.’
‘Hi, Charlene. I’m Rob.’ I held out my hand and finally had to touch her wrist before she would look at me.
‘I know. Rob Muller.’
That was a surprise. ‘Most people think my name’s Skippy, even though that was only the character I played.’
She grinned as she took her hand away from mine, embarrassed. Behind her, on the patio, women with matching turned-up noses and collagen lips leaned over the projector, allowing Donn to audition their perfect breasts while they helped him load the next reel.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘I mean, where are you from?’
‘Jonesville,’ she said. ‘That’s in Iowa.’
‘Did you come out here to go to school?’
‘Not really. I want to be an actor.’
She sounded like she meant it. ‘That’s a tough gig,’ I told her. ‘Are you taking classes?’
‘I was, back home.’
‘Do you have an agent yet?’
‘I just got one.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jim Western.’
That sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. ‘Who’s he with?’
‘Global Modeling,’ she said, ‘on La Cienega. Have you heard of them?’
I had. They represented most of the nude models and dancers in town, and provided the talent for Vulcano, Silver Nitro and VibroFlix, the largest producers of triple-X films and videos in the San Fernando Valley. I didn’t know what to say.
‘That’s how I met Donn,’ she explained.
I nodded as if I understood.
‘Why don’t you try Dimension Films, over at Miramax? They might have something for you.’ I racked my brain to remember who else was making low-budget features at the moment, hoping to come up with a legitimate alternative. ‘Or TriMark. Or Full Moon. You’ll probably have to do horror movies at first, but at least it’s a start.’
‘I already have one lined up,’ she said, without a trace of pretension. ‘It might be a series, if it’s successful. They’re writing the script right now. It’s called The Last Whorehouse on the Left.’
At that moment the white light outside darkened and the enormous face of Donn’s newest contract player, Celestine Prophet, reappeared on the side of the dam above the treetops. Her mouth was open but it was not empty. A hoot went up from the crowd. Two starlets with impossible figures stepped out of their skintight dresses, dove into the deep end and began rolling through the water like dolphins locked in a slippery embrace, as the man with the video camera hurried out to record the action.
‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ Charlene said softly.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t,’ I said.
‘Not the way they do.’ She meant the starlets outside, those in the pool and the others with their synthetic bodies and sparkling clothes and desperate recklessness. ‘Should I change my name, do you think?’
‘Why? I like Charlene.’
‘Oh, that’s not my real name . . .’
Donn was on his way back in. As I moved aside, she took my hand and clasped it tightly to her side. I felt the youthful firmness of her body moving beneath the thin cotton and realized that she was trembling. She leaned close and whispered in my ear.
‘Help me.’
‘How?’ I said, not moving my lips, as Donn approached the glass doors.
‘Not here.’
Donn hadn’t met my eyes yet. He was squeezing the buttocks of the one in the hotpants. He twitched his fuzzy moustache, made an O with his mouth and sucked air, moaning in ecstasy.
‘Where?’ I said to Charlene.
‘Later. I’ll find you...’
She separated from me and disappeared into the hall.
* * * *
Donn entertained the troops in the rec room. I stood by while he told a story about a guy who became famous for having his penis cut off twice. I’d heard it before, the day I met him in the lobby of the SAG building, where he held forth with a slightly different version of the same routine. He had recognized me and later, over a drink, offered me a chance to direct. I didn’t know who he was then but I found out. I came to his party because he claimed that plenty of regular industry people moonlight in the adult biz under other names, and he threw around numbers that added up to more money than I had made from a whole season on CBS when I was a kid. That was all gone now, of course; there weren’t any decent residual clauses back then. I hadn’t had many acting jobs since puberty, except for some sci-fi motorcycle flicks and voice-overs on Saturday morning TV. The Boomer Family was a curse. My ex had thought she was marrying into show business but what she got was a part-time real estate agent. I couldn’t hack it any more, not after the divorce. Maybe Tony had seen the handwriting on the wall, after all.
Donn finished his story in the rec room and introduced the girls to the reporters from Hustler’s Erotic Video Guide and Adult Video News. Then he caught my eye and nodded towards the hall that led to the rest of the house. As we got to the end of the hall I saw an open door and a bright bedroom, where at least two very naked young women were engaged in an act involving a dildo of life-threatening proportions. A videographer with a handheld BetaCam circled around them, offering unnecessary advice as to positions and techniques. Donn led me to the den.
‘Strap this on for size,’ he said when he closed the door. ‘“Geoffrey Nightshade”.’
‘Who?’
‘Your nom de plume.’
<
br /> He took a swig from a Heineken and smacked his lips, then set the bottle down and leant back in the leather chair, eyelids at half-mast.
‘We send out press releases, hinting that you’re a famous European director. They’ll beat their meat tryin’ to nail you. Is it Karel Reisz? Dario Argento? Michaelangelo Fuckin’ Antonioni?’
The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Dark Terrors 05] Page 24