by Ian Rogers
“I know what you’re thinking,” John said. “You think you do a better job of protecting this family than I do.” He sighed deeply. “And I think you might be right.”
He looked past the cat at the telephone on the side table.
“Should I call the cops?” he asked himself.
He watched the cat jump off the chair and saunter into the hallway. His gaze drifted up to a pair of pink-socked feet on the top step of the stairs.
He called out “Sally?” and the feet disappeared.
John sighed and picked up the phone.
The cops didn’t find anything.
Brenda served the two uniformed officers coffee while they spoke to John in the living room.
“Are you sure you smelled drugs in the house?” one of the officers asked.
“I wasn’t actually in the house,” John clarified. “I was in the garage.”
The officers exchanged a look.
“But you did smell drugs,” the officer prompted.
“I . . . I think so.” John hated the uncertainty in his voice. “I thought so at the time.”
“Was it marijuana that you thought you smelled?”
“No, it was a sharper smell. I couldn’t quite identify it.”
“But you were sure it was drugs.”
John muttered a reply. He could see how this was going, and he wished now that he had made an anonymous call. It was so humiliating. He felt like Ruth Meyers, the old biddy who thought the Girl Guides were putting LSD in the cookies they sold door-to-door every year.
The cops stood up and headed toward the door.
“We appreciate your concern,” said the officer who had done all the talking. “There’s nothing wrong with making a mistake. It’s perfectly harmless.”
John nodded dimly as he saw them off.
Harmless? He’d have to wait and see about that.
John put down his paper and picked up the ringing phone.
“Yes?”
“Hey, Dad, how ya doing?”
“What do you want?”
“I just wanted to say thanks for sending the cops over to my place. I really appreciated that. It’s a good thing I’m an honest citizen. Too bad for you, though. I imagine the file they got on you has a nice little stamp at the bottom of it. Something about the boy who cried wolf.”
John clenched the receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“I thought I might drop by some night. Have us a man-to-man chat. You know, seeing as I’m the guy boning your little girl.”
“Fuck you, you little shit.”
John slammed the phone down.
John didn’t sleep well that night. He stumbled through a series of dark dreams in which he found himself entering various rooms in his house, and every time, in every room, he came upon Kris Dunn. Sitting in his chair in the living room. Reading the newspaper in the kitchen. Sitting on the toilet in his and Brenda’s en suite.
Hey, Dad, just thought I’d stop by for that man-to-man chat.
He woke up sweaty in a tangle of sheets. He went downstairs to the kitchen, half-expecting to find Kris Dunn sitting at the table. But the kitchen was empty. The first faint glow of dawn was coming in through the window over the sink. John put on coffee and started back to the hallway to fetch the paper off the stoop. Then he stopped.
He looked over his shoulder at the back door. He went over to it. Opened it. Looked down.
He looked for a long time.
The police came to the house again, but this time they brought the circus.
Brenda was upstairs with Sally in her bedroom. John was in the living room, going over his story for about the thousandth time. How he had woken up, come downstairs, and found Kris Dunn on the back porch.
Most of him, anyway.
John recalled standing in the doorway, staring down at the ragged, bloody mess that used to be a human being. His gaze had drifted over to the bottom of the steps where a trio of worms were lying in the grass. Not worms, he realized. Fingers. He wouldn’t have recognized them as such if not for the silver ring on one of them. With an eerie sense of clarity he saw there was blood on the ring’s fangs.
The police asked John about his “confrontation” with Kris Dunn a few days earlier. That was their word for the encounter. John did his best to explain, and under other circumstances they might have shown more suspicion toward him. But there was the state of the body to consider. And the preliminary findings of the coroner.
John overheard the man talking to a pair of detectives in the hallway.
“An animal of some kind,” he proclaimed. “Something small, I’d wager, from the size of the teeth and claw marks. Maybe rabid, I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for the blood work to know for certain.”
John didn’t think anything would be known for certain. He had an idea the results would be inconclusive. Kris Dunn certainly wouldn’t be talking.
You could say a cat got his tongue.
“I don’t know what you’re crying for,” John said. “That kid was bad news and you know it.”
“You didn’t know him!” Sally screamed.
“I know he was dealing drugs.”
His words were like a slap in the face. And I didn’t even have to lay a hand on her, John thought.
They were upstairs in Sally’s room. John wanted to talk to his daughter privately, away from the police. Away from Brenda.
Sally sniffled and said nothing.
“Yeah, I know about that,” John went on. “The police were at Kris Dunn’s house this morning. You know what they found? The setup for a meth lab. It turns out the police knew someone in the neighbourhood was cooking drugs; they just didn’t know who. I told them to check out Kris Dunn’s house a few days ago. Did you know that? They didn’t find anything that time, though. Why do you think that is, Sally? Why didn’t they find that stuff the first time?”
Sally remained silent.
“Did you tell that son of a bitch I called the police?” John took a step toward her. “Did you tip him off?”
Sally glared at him blackly, then turned and faced the window, arms crossed.
John sighed and went back downstairs. The cat was sprawled across his newspaper. He stared down at the cat and prayed it was all over now. He hoped that with Kris Dunn dead, Sally would clean up her act. He worried about what would happen if she didn’t.
He knew he couldn’t protect his wife and daughter from everything in the world, but there was someone else in their family who was more than capable of picking up the slack.
DELETED SCENES
Joe Courtney was sitting in the office of his agent, Barton Collins, discussing all the work he wasn’t getting.
“I’m getting you work,” Bart said defensively.
“Porno work, Bart.”
“That’s work!”
“I don’t want to be in porno. It’s greasy. Once you do porno, you can never go back.”
“Yeah, but think of the chicks.”
“I’m thinking of the venereal diseases.”
“You’re a pessimist, Joe. You’ve gotta look at the upside.”
“I can get chicks, Bart. That’s not my problem. Paying my rent is the problem.”
“Porno pays, man. Porno pays well.”
“I’m not doing porno! Get me a real acting job!”
Joe hesitated, then picked up a slip of paper sitting on his otherwise empty desk. “Well, I have something. It’s not much, but . . .”
“I’ll take it.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Is it porno?”
“No, it’s . . .”
“I don’t care. At this point I’ll take anything.”
The address was for a soundstage Joe had never been to before, which he found a little strange. In the seven years he had been working as an actor, Joe figured he had been to every soundstage in Toronto.
Once inside he saw this one was no diffe
rent from the others. Half a dozen furnished sets, big lights mounted on tripods, cameras on dollies—the usual. There were people running around looking busy, others lounging near the craft service table drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups. And none of them were naked, Joe noted.
He saw a woman who wasn’t wearing a headset or racing around like she had a job to do. A fellow actor, he assumed. He got himself a coffee and wandered over. She was reading a script. Joe hadn’t seen one yet, didn’t even know what the movie they were shooting was called.
“Hi there.”
The woman looked up and smiled shyly. “Hello.”
“I’m Joe.”
“Sarah.”
They nodded at each other in lieu of shaking hands.
“You’re an actor?”
“Most days,” Sarah said, with a laugh. “The rest of the time I’m a mild-mannered temp. My older sister calls it my secret identity. Sort of like Batman, except the pay is shittier.”
“I don’t think Batman gets paid for fighting crime.” Joe shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “If it makes you feel any better.”
Sarah smiled. “It kind of does, actually. I bet Batman doesn’t get medical coverage, either.”
“Nope. Which is a shame, because he probably needs it more than us. He’s always getting into fights.”
“That happens on set, too,” Sarah pointed out.
“True enough. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll keep my monstrous ego in check if you promise not to drive over me with your Batmobile.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t have a Batmobile. Just an old Chevette.”
“You have my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
Joe nodded at the script. “So, what are we shooting today? My agent didn’t give me any details.”
“Oh, the usual. More footage that will never see the light of day.”
Joe frowned. “Direct-to-video?”
“Nooo, it’s a deleted scene.” Sarah tilted her head to the side and gave him a curious look. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Have you done cut work before?”
“Cut work?” Joe said, confused.
“Deleted scenes,” Sarah said. “You know, the stuff they remove from the final cut of a movie. Usually it’s done to speed up the pacing, or cut down the run-time, but there are all kinds of reasons why a scene might get chopped.”
“I know what a deleted scene is,” Joe said. “What I don’t get is how we can be shooting one. How does the director know the scene we’re about to do is going to be cut? And if he knows, then why the hell are we shooting it in the first place?”
“Those are production questions,” Sarah said in a dismissive tone. “I don’t concern myself with that stuff. You’d have to talk to the director.”
Joe sighed and looked around the set. He spotted a woman wearing a headset and a laminated I.D. badge that identified her as Sharon Biggs. She was directing a pair of men who were lugging a tall piece of lighting.
“Excuse me.”
The woman gave him a quick, impatient look. “Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Joe Courtney. I’m an actor.”
“Congratulations,” Sharon Biggs said coolly. “What do you want?”
“I understand we’re shooting a . . . deleted scene?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“So it’s true.”
“What?”
“We’re really shooting a deleted scene?”
“Yes.”
“A scene that won’t be in the final film.”
Sharon stared at him for a moment. “That’s what a deleted scene is, slick.”
“So what we’re doing here won’t be seen by anyone.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why are we doing it?”
“Talk to the director, guy. I’ve got a set to light.”
Joe started to ask where the director was, but Sharon was already barking orders at the two workmen.
He went back over to Sarah. There was still about half an hour before shooting began. He wasn’t very good at small talk so he ended up asking that question which is the fallback of every actor.
“So, have I have seen you in anything?”
Sarah shook her head. “Oh, no.”
“So this is your first gig?”
“No, I’ve shot deleted scenes for lots of films.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “I was in Passing Lane, Black Thursday, 13 Shades of Night.” She smiled. “Well, I wasn’t actually in them, because . . .”
“They were deleted scenes,” Joe finished.
“Right.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“What?”
“That you’re acting in scenes no one will ever see.”
“Not really. Deleted scenes are an important part of the filmmaking process.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well . . .” Sarah quirked her mouth and thought about it for a long moment. “You see that piece of lighting over there?” Joe nodded. “Well, you won’t actually see it in the final film, but you’ll see the set that it’s lighting. You’ll see its effect. That’s how it is for me. You may not see me in the movie when it’s finally up on the screen, but you’ll see my effect. Even if you don’t know you’re seeing it.”
Joe felt the beginning of a migraine. “But we’re actors,” he said in a harsh, frustrated tone. “It’s our job to be noticed, even if we’re only extras hanging out in the background. We’re part of the picture. That’s our role.”
“Sometimes it’s about what you don’t see,” Sarah said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go over my lines.”
Joe watched as she wandered away. “Right,” he said under his breath. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your ignoring public.”
Joe eventually managed to get his hands on a copy of the script. It didn’t make any sense. It was nothing more than a collection of the deleted scenes they were shooting that day. Short vignettes with seemingly no relation to one another that gave absolutely no clue as to the overall plot of the film. It might have been a romantic comedy or a gory slasher flick.
Joe tried to resign himself to the fact that his agent had screwed him again. He ignored the fact that he might be partly to blame; if he had bothered asking what the job was before he took it, he might not be in this mess. Regardless, he figured it was best to just roll with it. This was work after all, he was getting paid, and on the plus side, he didn’t have to bang some girl with silicone breast implants and a name like Misty Mountains.
The director, once she finally showed up on set, was as unfamiliar to Joe as the rest of the actors he had met that day. He had never worked with her before, and didn’t even recognize her name. Maybe they got special obscure directors to shoot these deleted scenes, he thought. A secret society version of the Directors Guild. It added the final lunatic touch to an already surreal day. He felt like he had wandered into an urban myth.
They were getting ready to shoot the third deleted scene of the day. In this one, Joe entered a car-rental agency and threw a set of keys at the young girl behind the counter. Then he was supposed to start ranting about their charge-by-mile rates, the ever-rising gas prices, and then segue into a philippic on OPEC and the conflict in the Middle East. It was going to be a good scene: the kind that would really show off his acting chops. Too bad no one was going to see it.
While Joe was waiting for Sharon to finish arranging the lighting, he spoke with the director.
“Why don’t we get you to talk through this entire scene?” he suggested wryly. “Discuss the cinematography, the lighting. We could record the audio commentary track for the DVD at the same time we shoot the movie.”
“You’re a pretty funny guy,” the director said in a tone devoid of amusement. “Now shut up and get on your mark.”
Suddenly the lights went out. Everything was silent except for a particularly loud burst of profanity fro
m Sharon Biggs.
“Vic, did you plug in that switch I told you not to?”
“I didn’t touch it!” whined another voice in the darkness.
The red emergency lights came on with a loud snapping sound, making the entire soundstage look like the inside of a volcano. Joe heard the sound of raised voices coming from one of the other sets. Sarah came running over. Her eyes were wild with terror.
“It’s the geeks,” she said in a breathless voice. “The geeks are here!”
“What?” Joe said, confused. “What’s going on?”
“The film geeks. They broke into the soundstage. They found us!”
“The film geeks?” Joe looked around wildly. “This is supposed to be a closed set. Isn’t it?”
Sarah staggered away from him. “Run for it, Joe,” she called back over her shoulder. “Run for your life!”
Joe was used to hearing melodrama like that, but not until the director called “Action!” He didn’t know what to make of it. People were starting to run. Joe looked around for the director or Sharon Biggs, but they had both taken off.
In front of a nearby set, two men tackled one of the other actors Joe had been working with that day and dragged him off.
Joe turned to run and clipped the table with the large plastic coffee urn on it. He reached out instinctively to keep his balance and ended up grabbing the urn in a desperate bear hug. He tumbled backwards with the additional weight, and hot coffee splashed across his arms and chest. Joe let out a high-pitched scream that undoubtedly told everyone in the darkened soundstage exactly where he was.
After pushing the urn off and climbing painfully to his feet, Joe dashed toward one of the glowing red exit signs. Ten feet from the door, a dark shape interposed itself between Joe and his escape route.
He was just a kid. No more than eighteen years old. He was holding something in his hands. Something round that looked absurdly like a manhole cover.
“I’ve got one!” the kid yelled in a high, wavering voice.
He came at Joe with the round object raised over his head. Joe realized what it was a split second before it smashed into his face.
A film canister.