Quinner puts down his script, bulging with loose notes and unfinished edits, for the third time that morning and stalks across to the wooden barrier the location crew have placed across the top of Huskisson Street to talk to Niall. It's almost ten and the day's schedule is already behind. Fucking Noone, the American gobshite, late again. No apologies, just shows at seven, throwing that gleaming smile around like coins to the poor.
Ben Noone's got it, though, Quinner can't deny that and he's glad they got him before anyone else. Tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, he moves like an athlete, confident in his own skin. He radiates sex. Speaking with him is like being undressed. The American reminds Quinner of a less androgynous David Bowie. There's something simultaneously beautiful and reptilian at work there.
The industry rumour mill is grinding, even while the movie's being shot, and the buzz is that Ben Noone is going to be big – very big – and that can only be good news for their movie. Casting the unknown looks like a stroke of genius. Even Quinner admits Noone's dead right for the part. And, like so many things that have changed since the Hungry Head production money came on board and the movie stepped up a couple of levels, Quinner hadn't had much to do with casting. His film is now their film.
The production is still a relatively small one, an independent production funded by a ragbag of Euro grants, small investors, the Liverpool Film Office and – most recently and most importantly – Hungry Head. Quinner doesn't care, just so long as it means The Tunnels gets made.
The movie is built around the Joseph Williamson tunnels: an apparently useless network of brick-lined, pre-Victorian engineered tunnels that sprawl under the Edge Hill part of the city. Some big, some small, most dilapidated, a few restored. Williamson, a rich eccentric, constructed them over two hundred years ago, apparently for no better reason than to give employment to locals. Teams of men stacked curving vaults on top of each other and toiled on winding shafts of brick-lined corridors and echoing caverns.
There's a peculiarly Liverpool mindset at work that Quinner wants to acknowledge in the construction of the vast, pointless labyrinth. He sees in Williamson's folly a complex metaphor for the city and its history.
Big Niall doesn't know a metaphor from a meat pie.
'Quinny!'
'Niall, you have to stop shouting, man. It's fucking up the sound.' Quinner doesn't mention how much it's fucking up his work. Niall doesn't count what his cousin Dean does – writing – as work. Explaining to Niall how his words make the transition from brain to screen would be like outlining the concept of infinity to a duck.
'Oh, right, yeah, soz, man.' Niall makes a zipping motion across his moon face. 'Me lips are sealed.' Niall has someone with him. A thin guy with a narrow forehead and a zoned-out expression. He looks at Quinner with an odd combination of sneer and fascination. He's wearing a baseball cap and Quinner immediately wants to punch him. He has one of those faces.
'What is it, anyway, Niall?' Despite the determinedly languid appearance of the crew, Quinner knows there's tension building with the next shot. It's going to be a difficult one and they all know it. The production only has the street until twelve and so far there have been problems, the latest being a recalcitrant wheel on the tracking dolly. Quinner needs Niall to stop hanging around.
'You know what I want, Quinny.' Niall does his puppy face and Quinner sags.
'Not again, Niall. I explained to you how it works. I can't just get you a job on here, mate. I'm working for them.' Quinner waves a vague hand in the direction of the shoot.
'I thought it was your film, like?' This is from Small Forehead.
Quinner looks at him and raises his eyebrows. 'It is, Niall's Mate Who I've Never Met, but I sold it. Sold the idea and script to the production company. Now it's their film. Was mine. Now theirs. Y'see how that works?'
Niall's mate nods. 'Yeah, right.'
Niall's eyebrows knit together and he points at a passing teenager wearing a location laminate around his neck and carrying a can of WD-40. 'That kid's workin' on the film. Who the fuck's he?'
Quinner's about to answer when he realises he's forgotten. Suddenly, the idea of going through all this again with Big Niall assumes the proportions of Hercules in the Aegean Stables. 'He's one of the actors, Niall,' Quinner lies. 'Fucken great kid. Big star soon. Huge.'
'Yeah?' says Niall, his expression brightening. He nudges Small Forehead with an elbow. 'D'yer reckon you could get me 'is autograph, like?'
Quinner nods. 'Sure, man. On one condition.'
Three
Nicky doesn't know if his job has a name but he doesn't care. He is on the set of a movie and the fairy dust is strong enough to lend everything he does a crackle of Hollywood electricity, even if all he's doing is lugging stuff from one place to another.
Being on location in Liverpool is a right buzz too, doubly so when Nicky walks past the small crowd of onlookers behind the wooden barriers marking out the filmmakers' territory. He's only grabbing a can of WD-40 from the camera truck but, striding purposefully through the temporary village of support vehicles camped out like an invading army in his home city, the crew laminate around his neck, it feels like it means something, makes what's been happening the past few years fade.
Nicky's black hair is cut short at the back and sides and is fashionably peaked at the front. He's on the small side, and thin, but not painfully so. He dresses sharp, his taste in clothes altering subtly over the past few weeks as he strives to fit in with the crew. Today he's wearing the new waxed biker jacket he picked up from Superdry. It cost a fortune but Dean wears something similar. The Superdry feels good on Nicky but it makes him feel conspicuous. Although no one has made any comment he's still young enough to worry about that kind of thing. He's got his own rolled-up script in the inside pocket of the new jacket, and the edges of it keep catching his skin through his T-shirt, a reminder to him of how cowardly he's been in not showing it to Dean Quinner. All the articles Nicky reads about the movies – and he reads them all – emphasise how important it is to seize any opportunity in the business. So far, he hasn't done a thing other than show up and he's getting nervous that the shoot will finish before he plucks up the courage.
Can in hand, he heads back to Terry Peters, Nicky's uncle and the sole reason Nicky is on set. Terry's the movie's go-to man: the gaffer. He gets plenty of work; the city is second only to London for movie and TV production. Big Hollywood multiplex stuff as well as smaller scale indies like The Tunnels.
Nicky hands over the can of WD-40 without saying anything.
'Cheers,' says Terry and uses the lubricant to free up a reluctant roller on the camera track. Terry gives the cameraman the thumbs up and the preparations for the take can begin again. Terry looks very like his brother, Nicky's dad: tall, loose-limbed, with grey, close-cropped hair and an air of capability. He's a man who would not look out of place fronting a house renovation TV show.
'Positions, please,' says Susie, the assistant director. 'We'll try for a take in two.'
Nicky slides back, well out of shot, hyper-conscious of his lowly status, and watches as the crew click into place around the two actors in the scene. Dean Quinner takes up a position next to Nicky, a script thick with loose sheets and Post-it notes dangling from his left hand.
'What's your name again?' It takes Nicky a couple of seconds to realise Quinner is talking to him. Quinner's tone is neutral.
'Nicky Peters, Mr Quinner,' says Nicky. 'Terry got me the job.'
'Terry?'
Nicky points at his uncle. Quinner grunts. 'Oh, right, yeah. I knew that. Shouldn't have had to ask. Lot of things on my mind, y'know?'
Nicky shuffles uncertainly. It's the longest conversation he's had with the writer since the shoot started. A corner of Nicky's script scrapes against his nipple, another gentle reminder from the god of ambition. Show him.
Quinner takes out a sheet of paper and a pen and hands it to Nicky. 'Listen,' he says, embarrassed, his tired eyes not meeting Nicky's. 'Sign this for m
e. Pretend you're signing an autograph.' Quinner turns and gives Big Niall the thumbs up.
'Shall I just sign my own name?' says Nicky. Susie glares at him and he lowers his voice as Quinner nods an answer. 'What's it for?'
'Long story,' whispers Quinner and takes the signed sheet. He walks across to the large man behind the barrier and, after a quick word, comes back to watch the take. He stands next to the kid, both of them caught up in the scene. When it's over, Quinner turns to Nicky.
'What do you think?' Quinner's pointing in the direction of Ben Noone and Jon Carroll, the actors standing in the pool of light.
Nicky's expression betrays his confusion. He's unsure why Dean Quinner is asking him. It takes him a moment to realise that there's no hidden agenda: the writer is interested in his opinion.
'Him, Noone. Is he any good?' Quinner asks.
Nicky's been with the movie for three weeks, almost the entire shoot. As far as he's concerned, Ben Noone is the movie. Though an unknown, the lanky American dominates every scene.
'He's great,' Nicky eventually manages to say. 'Different.'
Quinner doesn't reply. Instead he taps a pen against his lower teeth.
Noone is good. The kid's right about that. It's one thing – despite his personal feelings about the actor – that Quinner doesn't have to worry about as far as the project is concerned. It's taken Quinner a long time and a flirtation with alcoholism to get from script to production. Along the way, Quinner has given up more than once, sold his soul more times than he likes to remember, and is now operating at a permanent level of paranoia and gut-sick fear that the funding will be cut, that the movie gods will call in their marker, that some fucking thing will happen to deny him his film.
Just let it open, he thinks and says a silent prayer. Just let it open.
Four
'Call that a knife? That's not a knife. This is a knife.'
Noone's Hogan impersonation is spot-on but Carter, the Australian behind the bar, shrugs.
'It's a spoon.'
Noone puts the spoon he's holding aloft down on the bar. 'From the movie, man. Crocodile Dundee?'
'Never seen it.'
'You're shitting me.' Noone grins but there's no real warmth there and Carter looks away as the American holds his gaze a fraction longer than is comfortable. 'I thought all you Aussies fucking loved that movie.'
'Not me, mate,' says Carter. 'Excuse me.' He moves down the bar to serve another customer.
'Have it your way, baby.' Noone's voice is barely a murmur.
He swivels his stool back to face the loose group gathered round him like orbiting planets. All of them in this particular circle of worship, boys and girls, crew and followers, are younger than Noone.
Watching from his position in the corner, Quinner sees the dark-eyed kid, Terry Peters' nephew, standing awkwardly off to one side of the group. Quinner doesn't make eye contact. He's still mildly embarrassed he didn't know the kid's name when he spoke to him yesterday.
The older members of the production who've made it to Maxie's Shack on Wednesday evening are scattered in loose groups around the bar. Most of the technical crew, including Terry Peters, are absent, pulling a late one in prep for tomorrow's shooting. It's almost nine and tomorrow is the first day of shooting in the tunnels. Quinner wonders if the kid would be at Maxie's if his uncle was around. Probably not.
Quinner's with Josh Soames the director, Susie Burrows the AD, and Ethan Conroy and John McElway from Hungry Head, a table of empties starting to pile up in front of them. They have plenty to discuss, but despite his best efforts, Quinner finds himself drifting to the conversation around Noone.
The American mutters something in an undertone to the group and flicks his eyes towards Carter. They laugh and the barman flushes but says nothing. Lol Coleman, Maxie's owner, has made it clear that, for the duration of the shoot, weekends excepted, the place is theirs. Movie people are good for business. Good for the image. Even when some of them are dicks.
Carter can't see Coleman but Lol's always around somewhere and he's not a man you want to get offside, so the barman keeps his opinions to himself.
Quinner's watching it all until someone taps his arm.
'We got EightySix booked.' McElway looks at Conroy and angles his head towards Quinner. 'I said, we got EightySix booked, Dean.'
'What? Oh, yeah, right. Sweet.' He turns to McElway. 'Cheers, John. That's really good.'
EightySix is a London edit facility that Quinner's been pestering the production to use. It's another sign of the difference the Hungry Head investment has made. The made-in-Liverpool flavour is starting to become a little diluted but Quinner is philosophical. If going to London means the movie works better then he's got no problem with that.
As the talk turns to editing, Quinner sees Noone raise a quizzical eyebrow at Danny, some local blow-in he's turned up with tonight and who Quinner instinctively knows is bad news. Danny already seems half-cut but Quinner sees he gets Noone's drift right away.
He watches Danny reach into the pocket of his jeans and palm something to Noone with a practised smoothness. Noone winks and washes it down with the last of his drink.
Quinner's not the only observer. John McElway hasn't missed the transaction. He exchanges a fleeting glance with Quinner.
Time passes.
Noone slides his skinny arse off the bar stool. As his heels touch the floor one of the girls in the group positions herself between his legs. Alix, who does something in make-up, has slowly been working on getting Noone to herself for the past couple of weeks without making much progress. She's clearly decided tonight would be a good night to push it a little further.
'You off somewhere?' Alix slides her hands onto Noone's thighs. He stops and looks at her through his aviators. 'Don't you want to stay, Ben? Talk to me?' Alix's fingers are tracing a line ever closer to Noone's groin. She's a looker too, is Alix.
Noone puts his own hands on Alix's thighs and she leans into the touch. She's wearing a short skirt and Noone hooks a thumb under the hem and starts slowly lifting.
'Naughty,' murmurs Alix. She looks around at the rest of them. Can you believe this?
Noone continues to lift his thumbs and Alix starts to tense as he brushes a knuckle against her pussy.
'Ben,' Alix whispers. 'Not here.'
One or two of the group start to shuffle uncertainly. Noone leans close to Alix, still grasping her thighs, pulling her in between his long legs. She giggles softly as he whispers in her ear but then stiffens, the skin on the back of her neck reddening, and pushes him away, a startled expression on her face. She tugs down her skirt and backs off.
Noone smiles lazily and winks at her.
'Haven't you figured Benny boy out yet, Alix?' Danny is further down the track than anyone else would go with Noone. He's rocking slightly on the balls of his feet and his head is nodding easily, two tabs in. His Liverpool accent is hardening as he speaks. 'We don't know if he's queer or straight or what, right?' Danny fixes Noone with an unsteady gaze. 'My own view is that he's a fucken psycho. Just puttin' that out there.'
Noone is still smiling and he stands. 'I'm off the dial, man,' he says. 'Just like Danny boy says, darling.' He says the last words in a passable imitation of Bowie. Noone waves his hands in front of Alix's face and she flinches. 'The bogeyman. Wooo.' He swerves past Alix and waves a hand to the watching circle. 'Got to find my latest victim.'
Alix looks around uncertainly while the rest of the circle collapse in uncontrollable, booze-fuelled laughter, far louder than the half-joke requires.
Quinner's been watching and sees Noone make the early dart. The dark-eyed Peters boy says something to him that Quinner can't hear. Noone laughs and after a minute or two walks out. Nicky doesn't stay in the bar longer than a minute before he too heads out. Quinner can't work out if that's a coincidence.
He watches Alix head towards the bar, talking to one of her girlfriends, who has a protective arm around her shoulders.
'Rea
dy for tomorrow, kid?' Ethan Conroy says in a fake American accent and puts his own arm around Quinner.
'Born ready,' says Quinner.
Josh Soames walks back from the bar and hands Quinner a Diet Coke. Quinner takes a sip and leans back.
'I see Ben's getting an early night,' says Soames and exchanges a look with Quinner. Despite the differences in their backgrounds, and Quinner's initial distrust of the plummy-voiced Londoner, the two are becoming closer. The Tunnels is their film now, not just Quinner's dream.
'The Thin White Duke? Yeah, noticed that.' Quinner lets his head drop to his chin. 'Must be dedicated.'
'Boys,' says Susie. 'Play nice.'
Quinner makes a who-me gesture.
'How do you think Ben's doing?' McElway asks the question lightly.
'Good,' says Quinner. 'Yeah, good.'
'But something bothers you about him, right?' This time it's Conroy. Quinner looks back and forth between the two producers.
'Is this some sort of trap? Are you fuckers wired?'
The two laugh. Quinner leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, his drink held loosely in one hand. 'Where did you find him? I mean, I know he auditioned but it was so late in the game that I never really found out if there was a connection before.'
Noone had joined the production at a very late stage. Almost at the same time as Hungry Head came in, the original lead actor broke a leg and the whole thing almost stalled. Instead of waiting, Hungry Head pushed for a replacement. Quinner hadn't been involved in the auditions.
'No, he just showed up,' says Conroy. 'With all the rest. He had some sort of recommendation from Terry, but other than that he was unknown. Knew the city, did a great audition, nailed the accent.' Conroy looks over for confirmation from Soames, who nods in agreement.
'Brilliant,' says Soames. 'No question.'
Down Among the Dead Men Page 2