Insequor

by Richard Murphy

  Goldring had insisted on a love interest, even though there wasn’t one; Daniel had never mentioned his feelings for Veronica to anyone. As Goldring rattled off a list of Hollywood leading ladies he thought about her back in his home town. What would she be doing right now? Who was she with?

  “So we think we’ve got Marco and Julia lined up for the leads. What do you think?” Goldring took a sip from his elderflower and asparagus juice.

  He smiled and nodded knowing Goldring didn’t care what he thought, only that it was contractual that Daniel had ‘artistic control’ - whatever that meant. His own lawyers said they didn’t actually believe the term existed in the eyes of the law but he wasn’t too concerned because, at the end of the day and through a series of holding companies, he was funding the whole thing anyway. And money talked; certainly in a language Goldring could relate to. He could pull the plug any time he wanted.

  With a snap something Goldring had said though made him sit up. “Marco? Marco Lowe?”

  “Yes, are you are you familiar with his work?”

  The name rang around the restaurant like the sound of a bell. Marco Lowe. After what Jones had told him he suddenly felt nausea at the mention of one of Hollywood’s household names.

  Over the past few months he’d met all kinds of stars and celebrities. Some on the way up and some on the way down. The ones at the top were often the strangest; they were aloof but not impolite. You got the impression, when you shook their hand, that you were probably one of a thousand people with whom they’d met that day. You looked at the painted expressions and asked yourself, Inside are they screaming?

  But lately he understood why and it was difficult to explain the very nature of that existence. Unless you’ve ever walked around a shopping mall where everyone is staring at you, or had perfect strangers stumble over each other in the street to tell you how much you mean to them you could never understand.

  At first it was exciting, flattering. People were generally nice and either wanted an autograph, a picture or both. But after a while it got inconvenient. You had to plan it in to any activity you did. A simple trip to a bank became a logistical exercise. You couldn’t have a quiet drink anymore or sit down to eat in a restaurant; everybody was looking at you.

  After the frustration came the weirdness. Someone would step over a line. For Daniel, it had been a girl pestering him whilst he was on the toilet in a hotel. There he was, trying to take a dump, when outside, banging on the door was a lovesick teenager who was screaming at him that she wanted to have his babies. Security had got rid of her. But not after Daniel, pants around his ankles, had time to ask himself, “When did it come to this?”

  That’s when you lost your sense of trust; in human nature, in people. From then on every encounter and introduction became a professional activity with a beginning, middle and an end. All scripted out in your head and managed.

  Maybe that’s what happened to Marco Lowe. Maybe he was screaming on the inside. And maybe the screams got too loud.

  “I guess I‘ve seen a few of his movies. I don’t like his earlier stuff.”

  Goldring nodded. “I know what you mean, but he’s a big star now. Very bankable.”

  “Would he have to audition?”

  The producer shrugged, “It’s not usual with a name like his, but we could certainly get him in to do a reading if you’d like?”

  What if he could look into those eyes? What if he could help Jones close his case?

  “Yes, if you could. I’d like to him to meet an associate of mine and then we could see if it works.”

  “Sure, sure.” Goldring nodded. “I’ll make a call this afternoon. He’s already excited at the prospect of being involved and I’m sure he’d agree to a reading. By the way, have you had a chance to look at the script yet?”

  He shook his head. “Can you get it sent over to my office? I’ll need two copies.”

  “Not a problem,” said Goldring.

  Over the producer’s shoulder he noticed the unmistakable non-Hollywood gait of Jones. The Maître d’ was clearly suspicious but when he pointed across to Daniel, who returned a wave, the commotion was resolved and Jones found himself seated at the table.

  “Zak, can I introduce you to Mr Jones, my Image Consultant. Mr Jones, this is Zak Goldring of Monarch Pictures; they’re going to be making the movie we talked about.”

  Jones looked quizzically at Daniel who gave him a quick wink.

  “He’ll be sitting with me for Marco’s read-through.”

  “Hi,” said Goldring offering a hand, “I hope you’re going to enjoy what you see. Marco is really pumped.”

  “Marco?” Jones stared at Daniel.

  “Yes, Marco Lowe. Do you know his work?”

  “Some of it,” said Jones, before looking across at Goldring, “I don’t like his earlier stuff.”

  “Funny, that’s just what he said. I guess he’s someone who’s only lately found their feet in the industry. He got an Oscar nomination last year, you know?”

  “I was not aware of that,” said Jones.

  Goldring looked at his watch and started to check his phone. “Listen, I’ve got to get to another meeting, but it was great meeting you Daniel, Mr Jones.” He nodded, got up and shook hands before settling the bill and leaving.

  Jones fished around the table for a cup and poured himself a coffee. “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “They’re making a film of my life. Monarch studios are – “

  “You know what I’m talking about,” said Jones, his mouth hidden behind the coffee.

  “You mean Marco Lowe?”

  “Yes.”

  “They suggested him, not me.”

  “I get that. But what’s it got to do with me, your Image Consultant. I thought I was Head of Security?”

  He nodded, “Of course you are, but I thought you might enjoy the chance to make Lowe feel uncomfortable. Let him know you still had his number.”

  “What? Looking across the room at that scumbag? Think again, that’s not how I get my kicks.”

  Jones shook his head and turned back to his coffee. His mouth turned down and his top lip stuck out. Daniel noticed his suit was shabby and his shoes worn.

  He suddenly realised what he had just suggested. Was he really trying to dabble with this man’s life? His friend. The only person who he could count on at the moment and he’d thought it would be amusing, no, he thought he would be grateful for the chance to get one up on a murderer.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend. I just thought you’d enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy it? Daniel, I can tell you this; in all my years in homicide I met a lot of sick people. Some of them honest to God evil. I never enjoyed meeting any of them. Truth be told I was afraid a lot of the time. There never was, and there never will be, any pleasure in sitting across the table from a man like Marco Lowe.”

  “Understood,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  They sat in silence and finished their coffee. Jones swilling it around the cup and looking about the restaurant like a hawk, Daniel quickly sipping and trying to make eye contact. A call came in that there was a need for a meeting with his social media advisor, so the two left and headed uptown to a rented office space Monarch Pictures had given him the use of.

  As the car drove them he mused on his foolishness but, thankfully, Jones changed the subject. “What is a social media advisor?”

  “With all that’s going on I need someone to handle my online presence. People expect me to tweet and update my status; I’ve got blogs and websites – not just for the public but for my partners. She also helps monitor public opinion and feedback; which is really important to my sponsors.”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever much cared for social media. Seems to be full of opinions.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Not unless you back it up with action.”

  The car pulled up outside the office. Jones and a guard stepped o
ut to check the immediate vicinity before ushering him inside. Jones had implemented a lot of precautions and checks; he’d hired at least a dozen extra security staff and setup a few systems on Daniel’s intranet too. Every security incident was now recorded and monitored. Anything out of the ordinary was fully investigated and itinerary’s had to have Jones’s signature at the bottom so he could approve.

  Inside the meeting room a young woman sat at a table checking her phone. She stood up when they entered and introduced herself to Jones. “Hi, I’m Jemma.”

  There was brief, but sincere smile, before she switched her attention to Daniel. “We have a major issue with Twitter.”

  Daniel sat down and gestured for Jones and Jemma to do the same. “Tell me more.”

  “I’ve been looking at what’s been trending and hashtags such as ‘robot’; ‘the robot’; ‘robot man’ are showing way more activity than normal. There’s a lot of negative feeling out there. Especially around your opening of this church.”

  Daniel sat back and flattened his suit jacket. “Look, these guys are just hippies. They’re harmless.”

  “They are. But the Christian Right are not.”

  “The Christian Right?” said Daniel. Jemma’s long nails rapped on the desk and she put her phone down before running her hand through her auburn hair.

  “The Moral Majority, Christian Voice, Christian Coalition of America.”

  “Those guys,” said Jones. “I still don’t get why they’re upset with him. It’s not his church.”

  “But he’s sponsoring it. In their eyes he’s messianic. There have been a number of direct threats which we have the police looking at; Mr Jones I’ve raised security cases and emailed you the numbers. But there are also several online petitions which we can’t do anything about.”

  “Online petitions?” said Jones. “These people sit at home spouting out their opinions to anyone who’ll read their bile believing they have a right to be heard. You know what? You don’t have a right to be heard. You have a right to an opinion; but no one has to listen to it.”

  Jemma smiled. “You don’t think people have the right to express themselves? Social media has brought down governments, you know?”

  “That’s as maybe,” said Jones, “but ninety-nine point nine present of it is frustrated people venting off about their first world problems. Like I said to Daniel before; an opinion isn’t anything without an action.”

  Jemma looked long into Jones’s eyes. “I’ll make sure I remember that one. Tell me, who does your online presence?”

  Jones laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. Daniel, it would be good for your right hand man to have a say. I’m happy to handle it as part of your account.”

  Daniel shook his head. “No need.”

  Jemma pulled her lips tight but made no sound. “Fine,” she said, eventually. “I’ll leave you with my briefing and be on my way. Are we meeting up Thursday at the opening?”

  “Yes, I’ll need you running things for me.”

  “I’ll be there. Gentlemen.” Jemma smiled and, with a swish of her hair, she strode out of the room and shut the door. Jones couldn’t help but follow her with his eyes.

  “She’s quite something. Where did you find her?”

  “Toby recommended her.”

  “About this church.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’ll need to do some preparation and speak to some of them.”

  He idly checked his email messages and waved at Jones. “Do whatever you have to. Ask for whatever you need.”

  “Okay,” said Jones, getting up. “Well, take care and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He was only faintly aware of the door closing as Jones made his way out. On his phone he searched through the internet, twitter, Instagram…everywhere. There he was. There HE was.

  The comments where almost too much to take in. Love. Admiration. Hatred. Bile. Disgust. Fear. Everyone had a judgment. What would he think if it was someone else? Would he post a comment? ‘Like’ an offensive picture?

  People had photo-shopped Daniel’s head onto the robots. Dollars coming out of his pockets. There were jokes and insinuations. There were weird sexual images. Someone had even made a porn movie with a guy who frankly looked nothing like Daniel and some poor wannabe starlet in a latex robot costume.

  This was never going away so he had to accept it. But maybe it was time he put some distance between himself and the world.

  Chapter 27

  In the split second he had to look Pastor Johan up and down, Daniel pretty much learned everything he needed to. The shoes were safe and comfortable, clean and ever so softly worn. The trousers neat and pressed, a shiny black that suggested money but a lack of fashion sense. The white minister’s robe came down from the chest to just above the knee. It was silky and bright with various mystical shapes and symbols stretching downwards like cosmic traffic. The face offered warmth but sought reassurance. The soft white hair crossing gently over baldness, the skin wrinkled but friendly and the jawline firm but at the same time yielding.

  But it was the eyes that troubled him. The eyes stared back from beyond the face as if the man’s mind was somewhere else. Daniel wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a pleasant place or not, but the distance and detachment within them was something that made his chest tighten.

  The Interstellar Church of Truth and Fate had only just been completed. Funded entirely by donations it stood a full six stories, the main entrance a curious arrangement of pyramids, moons and a star encrusted archway. Additionally, white marble columns had been slotted in place to give the narthex hall a truly cathedrallike feel.

  Inside, several hundred members of Pastor Johan’s ‘flock’ were stood around as Daniel posed for the pre-arranged photo opportunity. They too were dressed in robes and gowns, some with images of the robot tastefully woven in, others with various symbols and icons he had never seen before. A lot of them had copies of a book, The Teachings of the Robot, either in their hands or clutched to their chest. He had been given a copy of it but had not had the time or inclination to read. It was some nonsense speculating where the robot originated from; a world call Karr, without any evidence to back it up other than Pastor Johan’s ramblings. It was the cornerstone of the church.

  The Pastor was shaking his hand so much now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. Both physically and mentally.

  “It’s an absolute honour,” said Johan, through his smile. The accent was southern, but gentrified. He had a habit of making the words snake around once they had left his mouth. “We believe the robot’s teachings will change mankind as a whole.”

  He nodded and turned to the wall of photographers, the flashes making his skin false and electric white. Teachings? What had the robot taught anyone? All it did was follow him. Relentlessly.

  A Dictaphone was shoved in front of him, shortly followed by a hand and an arm.

  “Mr Loman, how do you feel about being deified?”

  His head shot back instinctively. Where was his PR officer? “Well, I don’t know about that…”

  More Dictaphones and microphones flocked, like flies smelling a turd. He made sure he had their attention; he couldn’t get this one wrong.

  “I think what we have here today is a group of people setting up an institution to progress mankind and continue the search for truth that lies within us all. I’m glad to offer my support.”

  They were starting to squash him now and a few at the rear were shoving. He got shunted backward and had to lean forward to steady himself. Somewhere near the back he spotted Jones forcefully cutting through the crowd.

  Another reporter, this time with a TV camera behind her perfectly blow dried blonde hair, spoke up. “What do you think the robot can teach us?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Daniel, “but we have to try and learn. We know it holds many secrets and it our duty to try and discover what they are. All I pray for is that he offers humanity some kind of hope.�
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  “What do you think would happen if the robot ever caught you?”

  This one again, he didn’t know how many times he had answered. Here came Jones. “I don’t know and I don’t want to find out.”

  Jones put his arm across his chest and gently walked him backward to the main door where a security team had been setup to provide an exit. The crowd was following though; people were shouting out questions. Reporters started yelling at him from less than a foot away and cameras flashed again. The TV crews were worse with their spotlights’ dazzling him without respite. He couldn’t see and couldn’t hear anything. He panicked and shouted for Jones.

  “I’m right here,” said Jones, from his side. “Turn around head toward the exit.” He felt a familiar hand around his elbow.

  The sweat of the crowd was now in his nostrils, the noise barely recognisable as human voices. People were being barged now and he thought he saw one man disappear onto the floor. More shouts, more shoving. A camera on top of a man’s shoulders was turned and hit someone on the head. A fist was swung.

  But still Jones continued the firm walk to the back exit. Stoically he waded through the crowd; his old but still very strong arms pushing people like a beach beating back waves.

  “This way,” he said “We have a backup plan.” Jones was pointing at two new members of the team stood near a roped off arrivals area through a side door where there was a car waiting.

  As they approached the two security men stepped forward to block the doorway and the mob couldn’t follow anymore.

  “Quite a crowd,” said Daniel, adjusting his jacket and looking over his shoulder. The two guards were linking arms and the doorway was completely impassable. That didn’t stop a few photographers trying to poke their cameras through.

  “Makes me nervous,” said Jones, looking around. “Did you know your previous security team didn’t sweep areas beforehand?”

  “Something, I trust, you’ve corrected,” said Daniel. Straightening his cuffs, he finally seemed happy and waved over at the car. A driver stepped out and made his way to the back door of the limo to open it.