by Andy Jones
‘A viewing,’ I say, finally picking up the thread. ‘Someone wants to see the flat?’
‘I was thinking’ – Yvette’s voice drops to a whisper – ‘maybe afterwards, seeing as it’s a Saturday, maybe we could go for a drink . . .’
Shit.
‘. . . or something?’
The foot of the stairs is busy with people coming in and out of the building, so I dash through the rain to a doorway across the street.
‘Actually, Yvette, it’s not a great time for me.’
‘Or Sunday,’ says Yvette. ‘I could do Sunday.’
‘I mean in general. I mean, I’d love to and everything, I’m just incredibly busy. With this shoot and . . . stuff.’
‘Right, yes, of course. I didn’t mean anything heavy, just . . . you know . . .’
‘I’ll be working all weekend,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’ll be non-stop for the rest of the summer.’ I glance up to the roof of the casting studio, but if Verity is still up there, I can’t see her.
‘I understand,’ Yvette says, her tone cold.
‘Are you sure?’ I say, attempting to sound soothing.
‘Really, it’s not a problem. So are we okay for the viewing?’
‘I’ll make sure I’ve cleaned away all my dirty laundry,’ I say.
‘Fine,’ says Yvette. ‘I’ll be there at five.’
Fine. I won’t be.
You just know when someone’s right.
Friends, girlfriends, werewolves.
Elijah the werewolf is ten and ten-twelfths, can eat a Mars bar sideways, and his wolf howl makes the hairs in my ears stand on end. Verity sketches a slightly disturbing picture of the boy howling at a heavy moon, strings of saliva dripping from his fangs, his brow wrinkled in rage and hunger. Almost as if he can’t comprehend his own nature. Or maybe I’m reading too much into a ten-minute doodle.
‘Goosebumpers,’ says Holly, leaning over her shoulder. ‘Ready for the Frankensteins?’ she says to Ben and me.
‘Wheel ’em in,’ says Ben.
As she turns to leave, Holly’s eyes flick to Verity and then back to me. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The raised eyebrow and the hint of a wink that used to characterise a smile from Holly have gone now. Instead there’s a layer of something else and it tugs at my conscience.
We can’t choose who or what we’re attracted to. Any more than you can change your nature. Verity is kissing frogs, and Lord knows I fit the description. But a prince? I don’t think so – ask Sadie, ask Flo, ask Holly, ask Emma, ask Yvette. I can’t see the number on my back, but if it’s higher than a two I’ll be very surprised.
We audition the Frankensteins two at a time, and Albert is teamed up with Hugo, a cocky stage-school brat who recently ‘starred’ in a commercial for air fresheners.
‘Okay then,’ I say. ‘Who wants to be Frankenstein first?’
‘If you mean Frankenstein’s monster,’ says Hugo, ‘then I’ll go first.’
Ben gets Hugo to lie on a table while Albert plays the role of Doctor Frankenstein. A broom propped against the table represents the master switch. It’s not a scene we’ll use in the commercial, but it gives us a chance to see if the kids can act and take direction.
Hugo makes a bit of a fuss about getting himself set on the table. Ben calls ‘Action’.
Albert twiddles an invisible dial, but something is wrong. He turns more dials, flicks switches, clenches his fists and stares towards the darkening sky. His eyes widen at an inner revelation. He lopes across the lab, connects two lengths of heavy cable, calibrates a bank of instruments. Now he’s ready. Every muscle in his body is tense and his knuckles are white on the master switch as he watches the sky for lightning. And when it comes, something broken flashes in the doctor’s eyes. He heaves on the lever.
Hugo sits upright, his arms float upwards in front of him. He turns to Doctor Frankenstein, who has fallen to his knees and seems only now to appreciate the horror, the wonder, the dreadful truth of what he has done. ‘Garrrr,’ says Hugo, swinging his legs from the table and hopping to the floor. ‘Eurgggh,’ he says, striding stiff-leggedly across the room and blocking my view of the cursed doctor, who is now beseeching God above for forgiveness.
‘Cut,’ shouts Ben. ‘Abso-blooming-lutely brilliant.’
Hugo cocks his head immodestly, demonstrating a capacity for self-delusion that far outstrips his acting talents.
We reverse the roles – Hugo as mad scientist, Albert as his creation – and when Ben calls ‘Action’, Hugo, the ham, completely plagiarises Albert’s earlier improvisation. But there is no thunderstorm, no lightning; there are no dials, switches or levers – just a wooden broom and a table. Hugo pulls the broom, drops to his knees, and shakes his fists at the fluorescent lights. When the monster doesn’t move, Hugo looks irritatedly at Albert and goes to give the broom another yank.
The monster howls in anguish.
Hugo drops the broom and yelps.
Again a pitiful sound from the creature, clearly in pain as it struggles to a seated position. One arm hangs useless as the opposite hand clutches at his throat, fingering the scars there. The monster looks at his hand and doesn’t recognise it. And his expression is the saddest thing in the world.
Hugo is frozen; one hand outstretched protectively, the other clutched in an awkward fist at his side.
The monster’s mouth works silently, the effort of opening his dead jaws is excruciating and his eyes are wet with pain and incomprehension.
‘Wh . . . w . . .’ He heaves air into collapsed lungs, and when the dry words come, his voice is heartbreak. ‘Why?’
Hugo shakes his head, looks to me for help, doesn’t get any, and shakes his head once again in the face of the awful monster.
‘WHY?’ The monster half climbs, half falls from the gurney. ‘WHY!!!’
Ben nudges me, whispers in my ear, ‘Shall we cut now, or wait until Hugo actually shits his cords?’
‘I dunno,’ I whisper, as Albert’s monster advances on Hugo. ‘What do you reckon?’
Ben waggles his hand, fifty-fifty.
Me? It’s not just that Hugo’s predicament is amusing – which it is, utterly – but I could watch Albert all day long. If I’d paid forty-five quid to see this at the theatre I’d consider it a bargain and urge my friends to go and see it too. He might be the most gifted actor I’ve ever seen; and I’m going to slap green make-up on him and feed him sweets. The horror.
Ben calls ‘Cut’ a moment before Hugo throws himself out of the window.
Before we leave, Verity gives Holly, Ben and myself the sketches she drew of us during the long day. In mine, I’m holding a purple umbrella.
Chapter Fifteen
There are four Little Horrors scripts. Little Werewolf and Little Zombies are set in domestic situations, so we’ll film them in a studio. Little Vampire involves a wedding, so we’ll need a church, preferably one with high arches, gargoyles, stained glass and so on; and Frankenstein’s Little Monster is based around a school trip to a castle, so I’m looking for something with towers, dungeons, manacles, ravens. We spent the morning at the Tower of London, taking snaps of me lurching past Traitors’ Gate, Ben looming over battlements, me rattling chains. This afternoon we’ve visited three churches, and we’re driving to our fourth.
‘Are you sure you haven’t been smoking in here?’ says Ben.
‘I still don’t smoke.’
‘Well, it still smells of cigarettes.’
This is a conversation I don’t want to have, so I lower Ben’s window and cross my fingers that he’ll take the hint and let it go.
‘Has somebody been dating?’ he asks, elbowing me playfully.
‘Somebody may well have been,’ I say. ‘But it wasn’t me.’
‘Who then?’ says Ben.
‘Who do you think?’
‘I don’t know, do I? If I knew I wouldn’t a— Ahh.’ A penny drops and clangs heavily.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Ahh.’
<
br /> ‘Sadie?’
‘Looks like it.’
Of course Sadie has been dating, and I wish nothing less for her. I want her to find a good guy, be happy, have fun. But, call me precious, I don’t necessarily need to know about it, and I don’t particularly want her doing it in my car.
‘Where now?’ I ask Ben.
Ben consults the map on his lap. ‘Right here, third left onto . . . Morningside Road.’
I nudge the nose of the Mini into the oncoming traffic. A woman in a Land Rover honks unnecessarily and I give her a very necessary hand gesture.
In the following silence, Karen Carpenter croons the lyrics to ‘Solitaire’. Neither Ben nor I acknowledge the irony of this. Although it’s hardly a coincidence. Gold is an album to overdose to: ‘Goodbye to Love’, ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’, ‘I Won’t Last a Day Without You’, ‘I Need to Be in Love’, ‘This Masquerade’, ‘Only Yesterday’ . . . ‘Ticket to Ride’, for Christ’s sake.
‘Got anything else?’ says Ben, tapping the CD player. ‘I hate the Carpenters.’
‘Help yourself,’ I say, and an old gent in a Mercedes waves me through.
Ben pops open the glovebox and rummages through its contents.
‘Queen, Stones, ABBA, it’s a right mess in h— Opal Fruits! Want one?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘There’s red, yellow . . . looks like some tosser’s eaten all the green ones. Purple, want a purple one?’ Ben holds a sweet towards me.
‘You have it. Have the bag.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Nice one.’ Ben stuffs the sweet into his mouth and the pack in his pocket. ‘Right . . . Elton John, Elvis, Eighties Pop Anthems . . . How about Elvis?’
‘Yeah, whatev—’
I spot my turning too late and hit the brakes too hard.
‘Bollocks!’ Ben says, spilling a handful of CDs onto the floor between his feet.
‘Sorry. You okay?’
‘Fine,’ says Ben, rubbing the top of his head. ‘Gave me a bit of a fright, that’s all. Watch the road, you tosser.’
I reverse back to the turning and set off down a double-parked residential street. ‘Sure you’re all right?’
‘Fine,’ says Ben, holding up a shattered CD case. ‘But I think I’ve killed Elton John.’
Maybe I’m a little wired on adrenalin, but I laugh harder than the quip warrants.
‘Never liked him either,’ Ben says, picking up the debris and stuffing it back into the glovebox. ‘I’ll never get all this shit back in here.’
‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘We’ll sort it out later.’
‘Just need to make some space.’ Ben starts removing various items. ‘Torn map, hairbrush, plastic bag, pen, two pens, two batteries, what the hell is . . .’
In the corner of my vision Ben holds up something that might be a handkerchief. With a lace trim.
Ben glances at me furtively and bundles the glovebox junk into the plastic bag. ‘Straight to the end, left, and it’s about a hundred y—’
‘What was that?’ I say, jerking my thumb at the bag.
‘Eh?’
‘What you just put in the bag.’
‘Just . . . you know, shit.’
‘That last thing,’ I say.
Ben rummages in the bag and removes a battery. ‘Battery,’ he says with contrived offhandedness.
‘After that,’ I say.
‘Pen,’ Ben says, producing a capless red biro.
‘It looked like a . . . a rag?’
‘Yeah,’ says Ben. ‘A rag.’
‘Show me.’
‘What?’
I hit the brakes. ‘The fucking knickers, Ben.’
Ben smiles apologetically and hands over the plastic bag.
I remove a pair of silk, rose-petal pink, La Perla pants. The thigh holes are bordered with butterflies trapped in inch-wide lace; the front panel is a delicate mesh, fine enough to show a shadow of pubic hair; at the back, below the waistband, is a small slit closed off with a knotted bow. Exactly like the pair I bought for £120 on Valentine’s Day last year. Presumably Sadie still has the matching bra.
My instinct is to ram the Mini into the nearest lamp post, but I’ve done enough damage to Ben already. I drive a few yards further up the road until I find a parking space.
‘You okay?’ asks Ben.
I gather up my notes, phone and camera, climb out of the Mini, walk round to Ben’s side and open his door for him.
Ben gets out, looking slightly confused. ‘Are we walking?’
‘Have you got everything?’ I ask him.
Ben pats his pockets and the Opal Fruits rustle. ‘Think so.’
‘Phone, wallet, keys?’
Ben nod, nod, nods.
‘Jolly good.’ I close his door, kick it, lock the car and set off towards the main road, scanning the pavement until I see what I’m looking for.
Ben catches up just as I drop the car keys. ‘The church is the oth—’
The keys bounce off the iron grate and drop into the drain with a satisfying plip.
Ben points at the drain, then at the Mini, then at me. I’m smiling.
‘What about the church?’
‘I thought you liked the Anglican place in Shepherd’s Bush,’ I say.
‘I loved it.’
‘Good. We’ll go with the Anglicans, then.’
‘Okay,’ says Ben, staring into the drain. ‘The Anglicans. Great.’
‘Right, I need a drink.’
Chapter Sixteen
!
This is the first thought to lance through my brain on Friday morning.
A sharp, stark exclamation point.
!
Some people call them screamers.
Whereas the horrors of the previous night sometimes take a moment to dawn, this morning mine are already awake and waiting for me. I’ve never been a professional-standard drinker, but that didn’t stop me trying last night. Images of myself, shouting too loud, saying too much, trying too hard. I’ve got the booze paranoia with great big rusty bells on. And it’s the least of my worries. It feels like I’m sick with some tropical disease. One that eats away at your brain flesh from the inside. Where larvae hatch and writhe in the pit of your belly. One that leaves you panting with nausea and anxiety. There’s a dried-out sponge that I use to clean the toilet, and right now I’d rather have that inside my mouth than the sticky, foul-tasting lump of flesh that is my own tongue.
My first hangover was the morning after I lost my virginity to Trudi Roberts. I don’t remember the extent of my symptoms – only that they were subdued by an elation no headache or stomach pain could compete with. This morning, though, there is no elation to do battle with my hangover. Despair and remorse have joined my physical symptoms and they’re all fighting on the same side against me.
My mind flashes scenes of me making an imbecile of myself in the Stuffed Goose, downing shots, ruining jokes, mangling philosophical nonsense. At least by that point no one was paying very much attention. Ben had left an hour previously; Marlon our cameraman was largely unresponsive (only opening his mouth to drink, only opening his eyes to locate his pint); and Holly said less than a dozen words to me all night.
I remembered the creative mentioning a party, and Kaz asserting that I couldn’t go because I had a ‘busy week’. Well, she was right about that busy part.
The next time Holly took a toilet break I sidled up to Rob and asked if he fancied sneaking off to a party, but Rob had plans of his own so I left Marlon to his dreams and Rob to his own devices.
If anything, Kaz was more drunk, and correspondingly more flirtatious than the night she pinched my arse in the basement of the King George on Dean Street.
‘Surprised to see you here,’ she said, mock-reproval in her voice. ‘Haven’t you got make-up tests tomorrow?’
‘Well, Ben and Verity do. I’m a mere observer, Kaz.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you just?’
/> ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Meaning,’ Kaz said, her hand finding mine, ‘I’m going now. And if you were to leave exactly two minutes later, you’d probably find me outside getting into a cab.’
‘What about your boyfriend?’
‘Two minutes,’ she repeated and was gone.
Hardly subtle and hardly a seduction. If I had to put a number between one and twenty on Kaz’s back it would be a fourteen or a fifteen. Higher than mine, I’d say. Begging the question: what’s my compensating feature? Talent, personality and money are the ones Verity and I mentioned on the balcony in the rain, but there are others too. Availability, proximity, ego, ease. Not being the boyfriend you’re bored with, the girlfriend you’re angry or disenchanted with. I can’t begin to decode Kaz, and I have no intention of trying. I don’t even understand myself.
After I slept with Trudi Roberts, I told my friends. Trudi told her friends; our friends told theirs. It’s good gossip and it goes around. My credibility grew, my popularity received a boost and I felt pretty bloody good about myself. So I did it again: same result, this time with a little notoriety thrown in – and notoriety is cool, particularly when you’re a fifteen-year-old boy. But this? This bet, this mission, quest, debacle, call it what you will? Kaz was my ninety-seventh lover, and if for one second I imagined I would feel ninety-seven times taller than I did on the day I lost my virginity . . . well, I’d have been an idiot. What I feel this morning is sore, sordid and depressed.
An aggressive but otherwise dispassionate lover, Kaz fucked me like I owed her money. Like I owed her every penny of the budget and every pound we had bickered over. Savage and methodical, she transitioned through all the positions, made all the appropriate noises and said all the dirty words.
When I was thirteen or fourteen, I briefly took karate classes. The plan was to get a black belt then kick the shit out of Declan Chambers and his crew of wankers. We learned kata – drills of kicks and blocks and punches against imagined opponents. One two punch; three four turn; five six kick; seven eight thrust; sex with Kaz; nine ten scream. An approximation of the real deal.
Trimmed into a tapering strip, Kaz’s pubic hair glistened like black ink. Like an exclamation mark.