Nothing But a Star

by Jeremy Reed

  Dorian: Why have you done this to me? What have you put into the paint?

  Basil: As a matter of fact, your blood mixed with mine. I was negative when I met you, and when I tested during the time we were together, and I was working on the painting, I showed positive.

  Dorian: You’re lying.

  Basil: There wasn’t anyone else in my life, and there hadn’t been for years. It was you who gave it to me.

  Dorian: That’s a terrible accusation, and I don’t believe it.

  Basil: You walked over me. You took over my best friend Henry, and on top of it made Sibyl Vane pregnant. Who else do you want to destroy?

  Dorian: Shut up. You make me sound like a murderer. I’m a free person. We had something going, you gave me introductions, and I moved on. I’m not in the habit of being squeezed by relationships.

  Basil: But you’re going to get married, I hear. Isn’t that a relationship?

  Dorian: It’s a convenience. And what if I told you I loved the girl? She’s pretty, sexy, she’s got talent, and she’s pregnant from me.

  Basil: You’re a monster of deception. How dare you stand there and tell me you love her.

  Dorian: You resent it, because you’ve never been loved or shown love, and you never will.

  Basil: But you told me you loved me, when we first met.

  Dorian: I was probably drunk; sitting for you I needed to be, it was so tedious.

  Basil: You use people like cars and trash them in the process. You’ll do the same to Henry and Sibyl. Have you told her your status?

  Dorian: No, or she’d sue me, you know that.

  Basil: And is that the only reason—money? What about her health?

  Dorian: Let’s change the subject, can’t we? All I want you to do is to destroy the painting.

  Basil: That’s impossible, and I’ve told you why, because whatever happens to it will happen to you.

  Dorian: My problem is that I actually believe you; otherwise I’d take it outside, drench it in petrol and torch it in the yard. And this is your revenge on me?

  Basil: You could call it that, but it’s you rather than me who creates what you see. You’re simply looking at the real you, the flip side.

  Dorian: If that was the real me, people would avoid me. When I go out clubbing I pull every minute.

  Basil: But when you look at the painting, it’s the B-side you see, because that’s the person I saw every time you sat for me.

  Dorian: You’re as evil as me; that’s why we met.

  Basil: We’re both in the portrait. The infected blood I mixed into the pigment contained the illness you’d given me, and that’s what you can’t bear to see.

  Dorian (pulls out a gun): And if I shot you, how would that affect the portrait, if I blew your brains out against the wall?

  Basil: Put that gun away. Don’t be stupid; we can talk about this.

  Dorian: I’m not so sure we can. I think your time has come.

  Basil: All right. Don’t do it. I’ll try to stop the painting ageing. Give me a chance.

  Dorian: Get down and crawl. You’ve seriously messed with my life.

  Basil: I’ll make it up. Just don’t shoot me.

  Dorian: The gun isn’t loaded, look. (Dorian fires it point blank at Basil’s head and kills him.)

  Dorian: God, what have I done? Basil, I didn’t mean to… I thought it was empty… Fuck, he’s dead.

  Scene Eight

  The interior of Dorian’s apartment: a reconstructed Chelsea floor-space, with a red velvet drape blanking out the portrait hanging on the wall. The space includes mirror balls, a black velvet sofa, taxidermy, camp accessories, lamps, leopard cushions.

  Sibyl: So this is where you hang out? Do you realise, you’ve never once invited me here; you always come back to mine. I suppose that’s because we can’t have sex there, without my mother hearing.

  Dorian: Don’t be absurd, you’re pregnant from me.

  Sibyl: Yes, from doing it on the back seat of a BMW you’d borrowed from a friend.

  Dorian: Don’t trash my feelings; you said you wanted to marry me.

  Sibyl: Feelings? You don’t seem to have any except for men like Henry. I don’t know what you want; it was me who offered to marry you.

  Dorian: Let’s not fight. There’s the child to think of, as well as ourselves.

  Sibyl: I realise I hardly know you, or what you do in life. Can you get the cash for Isaacs?

  Dorian: I’m not a money launderer, printing cash for dodgy agents.

  Sibyl: You must have money to live here in this style. I don’t like asking for favours, it’s just I’m desperate and thought you’d help.

  Dorian: I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t promise.

  Sibyl: We’ve not properly spoken about our personal lives, or, I mean, you’ve told me almost nothing about yourself. It’s strange. I gave you my heart without knowing who I was giving it to. That’s love, I suppose.

  Dorian: I don’t work, if you want to know; I survive with the help of friends and family.

  Sibyl: If you don’t mind me asking, why is that painting on the wall covered up?

  Dorian: It’s the one Basil did of me, and I don’t like the finished product. I’ve really got to be in the mood to look at it.

  Sibyl: What do you mean? Show me, I want to see it.

  Dorian: No, it’s absolutely off-limits; nobody apart from me has seen it since I brought it home.

  Sibyl: If you’re afraid of the painting why don’t you get rid of it?

  Dorian: I can’t dispose of it, because it was done by a friend. He’d be very hurt.

  Sibyl: Why don’t you give it to a friend to look after, if it causes you so much stress?

  Dorian: Because Basil comes here, and he’d wonder why it was missing.

  Sibyl: I don’t get it. You’re an enigma to me, a bit like your painting.

  Dorian: Let’s change the subject. Do you want a drink or some blow?

  Sibyl: I’ll have vodka if you’ve got it. At last I can spend the night with you, and in a posh place.

  Dorian: I’ve got a friend coming over later.

  Sibyl: You’ll have to cancel, because I’m here now, and I’m not going.

  Dorian: What do you want in your vodka?

  Sibyl: Lemonade or tonic will do, if you’ve got it.

  Dorian: Here we are. Excuse me, I need the bathroom.

  (Dorian disappears into the bathroom, where Henry is hiding, and locks the door. Taking the opportunity, Sibyl goes over to the painting, quickly lifts up the red velvet drape and stands back, stifling a scream, horrified.)

  Dorian (reappearing): Are you all right? You look like you’re going to faint.

  Sibyl: I’m all right, it’s just I psyched myself up for tonight’s gig and let myself down. And it’s a bit weird being here. I’d no idea you lived in such style.

  Dorian: I cultivate style, but I’m not so sure I can pay for it. Are you quite sure you didn’t look at the painting?

  Sibyl: Of course. Why should I since you’ve said it’s so terrible?

  Dorian: That’s obvious. Because most people are fascinated by taboo, including Henry. You looked at it didn’t you, that’s why you’ve got no colour in your face?

  Sibyl: Let’s go to bed and forget about tonight and the painting.

  Dorian: You did look at it. Tell me what you think.

  Sibyl: I didn’t study it. I just took a quick look.

  Dorian: Go on.

  Sibyl: It’s you, all right, only you look like you’re terminally ill. Why did this Basil paint you like that? I’d burn it if I was you.

  Dorian: If you want to know, he painted me as you’re looking at me now; it’s the painting that’s developed a life of its own. I can’t stop the process. Basil has… Well, I think he’s put something into the paint.

  Sibyl: I don’t know, the whole thing seems sick. You should throw it out. Put it in a skip.

  Dorian: I can’t, or I risk exchanging places with the painting.
That’s what Basil says. I’ll be old and it’ll be young.

  Sibyl: It all sounds crazy to me, like some kind of spooky voodoo.

  Dorian: You’re right, that’s exactly what it feels like. Are you sure you still want my child?

  Sibyl: Of course I do. If it’s a boy it will have your stunning looks.

  Dorian: There’s still time to terminate if you need.

  Sibyl: I’m going to have the child and we’ll bring it up together.

  (Henry Wotton comes out of the bathroom and confronts Sibyl.)

  Dorian: Sibyl, I’m sorry, Henry’s here staying the weekend; you’ll have to go.

  Sibyl: What the fuck are you doing here, Henry? You’ve set me up, you bastards.

  Dorian: You two have met of course, there’s no need for introductions.

  Sibyl: Look, I think I get it, but why invite me?

  Dorian: I didn’t, it was Henry’s suggestion, or an issue of jealousy, as he doesn’t like sharing me with you.

  Sibyl: Henry, why are you staring at me like that? Say something, you look insane. Don’t worry, I’m going. And I won’t be back.

  (Henry raises the same gun that Dorian used to kill Basil.)

  Sibyl: Don’t do it. You’re a psycho.

  (Henry coolly shoots Sibyl with the silencer on, twice through the heart.)

  Dorian: Now we’re blood brothers.

  Henry: I’ll see to it that Alan Campbell disposes of Basil in his lab. As for Sibyl, she’s going downriver later tonight. We’ll put her in a black sack. You’re coming with me.

  Scene Nine

  Dorian Gray and Henry Wotton sit nervously over a bottle of Scotch placed on the table in Dorian’s living room.

  Henry: I tell you, the only person who can help and won’t ask questions is Alan Campbell in Mayfair. I’ve got his details on my phone.

  Dorian: He’s the pathologist you were blackmailing over the sale of body parts from Guy’s?

  Henry: What do you mean, ‘were’? It’s ongoing. I’ve just received a bank transfer for two grand this week. He specialises in kidneys.

  Dorian: It’s manslaughter; I never intended to kill Basil. I thought the handgun was empty. Please believe me.

  Henry: Alan’s going to have to dispose of the body and recycle whatever organs he can sell illicitly. The biotech industry’s a marvel. It can double as waste disposal.

  Dorian: Basil’s in the bedroom. I’ve sat him upright at a table with a blanket over his head. I’m zonked on Valium and Scotch; I just want to get him out of here.

  Henry (picks up his phone): Alan? Yes, it’s Henry. You’re needed for a job urgently. Don’t ask questions; it’s serious money. No, I’m not into pathology. My friend shot someone about 14 hours ago, so he’s fresh for the bio-bank. What do you mean you’ve got the address? I see. I didn’t know that. Cool. See you.

  Henry: Alan’s on his way. I didn’t know the two of you had got together after Heaven last week.

  Dorian: I didn’t ask his name, but clearly he got mine.

  Henry: He’s lucky you didn’t mistake him for Basil and shoot him.

  Dorian: I didn’t mean to kill Basil like you did Sibyl. I simply wanted to stop his psychological warfare on me through that painting.

  Henry: As a matter of interest, have you looked at the painting since you killed him?

  Dorian: No. I want Alan to dispose of it with the body.

  Henry: You’re good for me. I’ll take a look at it, as I’m still trying to find ways of being shocked out of my own reality.

  (Henry goes over to the painting and lifts up the velvet drape.)

  Henry: It’s more like a Bacon than ever. The painter Bacon, I mean. I wouldn’t look at it if I were you. It’s morphed significantly. It’s like a Big Mac worked on by a makeup artist.

  Dorian: I’ll pay Alan to dispose of it with the body. Basil told me he mixed his blood with the pigment, so it’s like an infected version of me.

  Henry: I didn’t think Basil was that perverted.

  Dorian: He blamed me for leaving him and hexed me with this slow burning voodoo. He told me so, in detail.

  Henry: Basil was deeply secretive when he wasn’t being insanely indiscreet. He went right off-message after a breakdown about five years ago, had a scare with elevated PSA levels, and started getting weird and reading about the left-hand path.

  Dorian: In the time I sat for him he never went out and nobody apart from you ever called or came to the studio. He feared competition, so he despised most other art, except Francis Bacon.

  Henry: He was too self-obsessed to let his work go and establish a reputation independently of him. I call it WT—wank tank.

  Dorian: God, that’s Alan arrived. I can’t cope with this. Please deal with it for me, Henry.

  (Alan is buzzed in and enters, taking in the scene, professional acumen tinged with suspicion.)

  Henry: Alan, we’ve got a patenting job for you as a biotech dude: a dead body, late thirties, in the bedroom. Suicide: a single bullet through the brain, and Dorian’s freaking.

  Alan: I need to see the body first. If it’s murder I don’t want to be involved; that’s for forensics.

  Henry: Alan, I don’t need to remind you of your debt to me in not getting fired. This time money’s going into the bio-bank and not into mine. You’ll do as I tell you.

  Alan: Show me the body, and I’ll tell you if it’s of use to me in trading parts.

  Henry: Kidneys, isn’t it, Alan, without the steak?

  (Henry takes Alan Campbell into the bedroom, while Dorian pours a large Scotch and huddles in his chair, clicking an empty gun against his right brain lobe.)

  Alan (returning): That’s not suicide; it’s murder. What happened? Why did you kill him?

  Dorian: I didn’t intend to. I had an empty gun that turned out to be loaded, and it went off when I squeezed the trigger.

  Alan: I’ve heard that before; but I’ll do the job, as I’ve got clients. I’ll need to get the body to my lab. I’ll come back with a van and my assistant, and do a bit of furniture removal together with the body bag.

  Henry: I’ve got to credit you, Alan; you really are the Heston Blumenthal of body snatching.

  Alan: It makes me an accomplice, of course. I’m trafficking the organs of someone I suspect was murdered, and the body has to disappear completely.

  Henry: Basil simply has to go missing; people do, and it’s convenient that I was his only real friend.

  Dorian: And take the painting, too; it’s infected.

  (Alan Campbell walks over to the painting, lifts the drape and recoils instantly.)

  Alan: I’m not touching that. It’s malignant. Whatever it is I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s not part of my world and I don’t want it to be.

  Dorian: The reason this happened was the painting. Basil Hallward programmed it to destroy me. The thing corrodes while I get younger.

  Henry: Have a drink, Alan; it’ll settle your stomach after the brains.

  Alan: I’m not here to socialise—there’s a murdered body in the bedroom. I’ll be back later.

  Dorian: I wish you’d stop using the word ‘murder’. It was an accident, I told you—I didn’t know the gun was loaded.

  Alan: I’m not here to investigate the case. I’ll be back later with an assistant to pick up. Right, Mr Gray.

  Scene Ten

  The interior of Dorian’s apartment. He is alone, his table littered with pill bottles, and is systematically taking his meds. He gets up and goes over to the draped portrait. He stands, staring at it, pours a drink, and tentatively lifts the drape. He resists throwing his drink at what he sees, pulls down the drape, goes back to the sofa, puts his head in his hands and cries. He’s alerted to a visitor by his entryphone and answers it immediately.

  Dorian: Hi, Henry, come on in.

  Henry: Is your medication working? I suppose you’re on the three-drug combination.

  Dorian: What do you mean?

  Henry: You don’t need to te
ll me; your face makes it very apparent to someone like me that you’re on medication.

  Dorian: Can you really see that in me?

  Henry: Not so much in your looks, but in the attempt to conceal it.

  Dorian: Thanks for coming to look at the painting. I can’t bear having it here and watching it degenerate.

  Henry: I still think you’re imagining it, but seeing is believing: so let me take a look.

  (Henry goes over to the painting and lifts the drape, while Dorian sits with his head in his hands.)

  Henry: Interesting. It keeps changing. It really has turned into a Bacon. Makes you wonder what it’ll do next. Francis would have loved this sick, degenerate look. But is this your doing, Dorian? Have you altered Basil’s original? Perhaps you’ve been feeling guilty and took it out on the painting?

  Dorian: I haven’t touched it. The whole thing’s happened independently of me. It’s like the painting’s a running commentary on my lifestyle.

  Henry: I actually prefer it like this; it’s sexier, debased. Reminds me of a docker I used to rumble called Frank. His face was like streaky ham.

  Dorian: This is Basil’s work; he’s the person who created it. Nobody else has touched it.

  Henry: Or would want to, unless you’ve got something going with a bacon rasher in a deli.

  Dorian: I can’t live with this painting, but Basil warned me if I destroy it I’ll die. What do I do?

  Henry: Shoot it, and see if it responds.

  Dorian: But I’d be shooting myself.

  Henry: People live through such things. The painting will be the casualty and you’ll be the head-bandaged survivor.

  Dorian: Henry, this whole thing is literally doing me in. And now there’s Sibyl too. I’m an accomplice to her murder, and her brother will come looking for me in a few days.

  Henry: I’ve told you before, guilt is negative energy. Disown it and learn to live.

  Dorian: I’m not like you; I can’t turn corners on murder and carry on living normally.

  Henry: You’ll learn, or have a long time to think about it inside.

  Dorian: I need you to dispose of the painting, like you did Basil. You’re my blood brother, after all.