This Other Eden

by Ben Elton

  ‘So it’s a “maybe” then?’ said Nathan.

  ‘Rosalie,’ pleaded Max, seeing his chance to get to know her better slipping away. ‘We are going to make you into a national hero!’

  ‘We are talking about a fillum here,’ Nathan added.

  Neither he nor Max could begin to comprehend Rosalie’s attitude. They thought it must be a joke. In the world in which they lived, a green-lighted movie with the budget in place was the life goal. Nobody turned it down.

  ‘Mr Hoddy,’ Rosalie asked, ‘if this movie goes ahead, how long before it gets shown?’

  ‘From now? Ideally eighteen months. Realistically two years tops.’

  ‘Yes, well it’s my belief that there may not be a world to show it to in two years’ time. Perhaps everyone can take a little video of it into their Claustrospheres when the Rat Run happens! Good heavens, Mr Maximus, when I heard you were looking for us, I thought perhaps you genuinely wanted to join us.’

  ‘I do! I do!’ Max exclaimed.

  ‘No, you don’t! You just want to use us, that’s all. It’s a damn shame, that’s what it is. A figure like you could have helped us with getting through to younger people and. .

  Rosalie’s voice trailed away. She scarcely liked to admit it even to herself, but she had been rather excited about seeing Max again. What is more, not for merely professional reasons. She had liked him the day they met at the DigiMac Studio. Liked him, even considering that he had had a horn grafted to his head at the time. He had also, of course, saved her from Plastic Tolstoy. Rosalie liked men who did that sort of thing. Yes, there was no doubt about it, Rosalie had been a bit taken with Max Maximus. Now it turned out he was just another shit who was working for Claustrosphere.

  ‘I wouldn’t let you near one of my operations if you were Jurgen Thor himself.’

  Max could see that he had a lot of ground to make up. He was just about to start the process when events overtook them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A standing ovation

  Under siege.

  Outside, the Garda were in position. The Inspector of Police in charge of the arresting party fired his revolver into the air and informed the occupants of the cottage via megaphone that they were surrounded. The Inspector added that he and his men were there in order to arrest the woman known as Rosalie Connolly. If she came out quietly nobody would be hurt and no other person would be arrested.

  Inside the cottage there was silence for a moment. Rosalie’s eyes burned into Max. She was wondering why the Garda had come now. Did this American and this Englishman have something to do with it? Rosalie did not mind Yanks, but she was not big on the Brits at the best of times, and it did seem strange that the Garda had followed so hot on the heels of the two movie men. Max shrank under Rosalie’s gaze. He was a fine actor, he had made a career out of communicating a thought with just a look. He could also read the thoughts on other people’s faces. He knew what Rosalie was thinking.

  ‘Rosalie, I swear I —‘ he started to protest his innocence, but Rosalie’s gran cut him short.

  ‘This has nothing to do with you. So shut up, keep your head down and you won’t get hurt.’

  Her husband was sweeping china ornaments from the beautiful old chest that stood in the corner of the room. Having cleared the top, he opened it to reveal a stash of arms.

  ‘If you fight,’ said Max, ‘I fight too.’

  ‘What!’ Nathan gasped.

  Ruth too was surprised, but she was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  ‘Can you use a gun?’ she asked. Max gave her a pitying glance.

  ‘Ruth, I come from LA. Most times it’s a question of trying to remember how not to use a gun.’

  Sean thrust an automatic rifle into Max’s hands. He offered one to Nathan.

  ‘We are here to pitch a movie,’ Nathan pleaded in horror.

  ‘Not any more!’ cried Max. ‘We’re defending the homestead!’

  Max was terribly excited. He loved to do mad things and they did not come much madder than this. In fact, the only thing he loved more than doing mad things was doing mad things in front of beautiful girls. Particularly beautiful girls with whom he would dearly love to spend long romantic evenings, drinking wine, talking and eventually screwing for an inordinately long time and in a variety of interesting positions and different domestic locations.

  Nathan could see that trying to reason with Max would be useless, and dived under the kitchen table. He could think of nothing better to do.

  Ruth and Sean were both armed now. Sean ran out of the kitchen to cover the back of the cottage, whilst Ruth knocked out one of the kitchen windows and prepared to fire. Max, taking his cue from the gun-toting granny, also knocked out a window and then inspected his weapon. He wanted to ensure that he fully understood its working and would not be fumbling to reload when the heat got hot. Rosalie too had got her weapon from the wall and for a moment she seemed ready to start shooting, then however she stopped and her face fell. She stood dejected in the middle of the kitchen.

  ‘Gran,’ she said, ‘this is stupid. We’re trapped, we can’t shoot it out, they have us cornered. Besides, we don’t want to kill a load of innocent coppers. I mean, that’s no good, is it?’

  ‘But, sweetie,’ said her gran. ‘The stuff they’ve got on you, they’ll put you away for ever. You’ll do thirty years.’

  ‘There aren’t thirty years left, Gran.’

  ‘Exactly, darling, which is why you have to be free to fight.’ The old lady’s knuckles were white over the trigger. ‘No copper ever stopped your mother and father getting shot outside Sellafield, did they? The police may just be innocent boys, but their job is to defend the things that are killing us all.’

  Sean shouted from the other room. ‘Your gran’s right, Rosalie! They mustn’t take you. The trail bike’s all ready in the sheep shed. If we cover you, you can get along the stream gully to the dry-stone wall and be away!’

  ‘Sure, and have my own grandparents tried as cop killers.’

  ‘We don’t have to hit them,’ Max interjected. ‘We just use our fire to pin them down.’

  But Rosalie was adamant. The place was surrounded by armed police and, as far as she was concerned, she was nicked. Outside, the Inspector of Police reacted to the clear signs that the cottage was preparing to defend itself. He informed them in no uncertain terms that they were hugely outgunned and that any threat to his officers would be met with the full force at his disposal. The Inspector’s point was basically that Rosalie was cornered good and proper so why should anybody have to get killed? Rosalie agreed with him and decided to give herself up.

  Inside the cottage Max started to take his clothes off.

  The actor prepares.

  Max’s plan was simple. He was, he reminded them, short and slim and also a brilliant actor. It was still only half-light outside and, as far as anyone knew, none of the Garda had ever seen Rosalie personally. Yes, they had probably seen her arrive, but it would have been at a distance and in the dark. Even if they had used night-sights, they would really only have been able to make out her clothes. Max explained all this whilst stripping down to his underwear before the startled group.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he snapped. ‘Give me your clothes! They’ll have seen your clothes.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. You don’t look a bit like me.

  ‘Hey lady! This is my bag, OK? My space. I know what goes down… It’s dark, it’s cold, the cops want to bust some ass and go home. So, let them bust my ass. Believe me, acting is about bluff. If you do it with chutzpah people will buy it, no matter how unconvincing you are.’ Max spoke with conviction, having recently attended an Arnold Schwarzenegger retrospective at the American Film Institute. ‘If I go out there with your beret pulled over my ears, a little bit of make-up and a dress they won’t think Jack Shit about it. Get real, Rosalie, what are the chances of an American movie star walking out of this cottage dressed as a babe terrorist? Zilch. The cops
wouldn’t believe it even if I showed them my dick. They saw you go in, they’ll see you come out … Besides which, what have you got to lose to be sure my little darling?’ This last, Max delivered in a good approximation of Rosalie’s Irish accent. He also raised the pitch of his voice a little, not a great deal, just enough. Not all women have high voices by any means and there is nothing less convincing than a man squeaking to sound like a woman.

  Rosalie wavered no longer. She pulled off her jumper and dress.

  ‘What do I have to lose? If they suss you, which they will, so what?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Max. ‘But they won’t.’

  ‘They will if you say “to be sure”,’ said Ruth. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard an Irish person say that in my life.’

  ‘I’ll need the bra, I’m afraid,’ said Max, unable to stop himself glancing appreciatively at Rosalie’s body … It seemed so, he didn’t know, real … ‘and something to stuff it with.’

  ‘You won’t need much, I’m not one of your Hollywood types.

  She turned her back to him and took off her bra, replacing it with a T-shirt that her gran handed her from the clothes-horse by the fire.

  Max began to construct his character. He had shaved only a few hours earlier at the hotel, and, by adding a little powder that Ruth supplied, he managed to conjure up an acceptably smooth skin. Some lipstick and a tiny nod towards eyeliner changed him out of all recognition… although, of course, he still did not look a bit like Rosalie. Rosalie had been wearing big walking boots with her dress, long woollen socks, a greatcoat over it all and her chestnut hair tucked into a black beret. Max’s hair was nearly shoulder-length so he was able to get away with that and, having borrowed a pair of farmer’s boots from Sean, the magic was beginning to work.

  ‘You know something, Max,’ said Nathan, who had emerged from underneath the table, ‘you might just get away with it.’

  ‘I don’t know any Max,’ replied Max in his gentle Irish accent. ‘Jesus, you know I’m still half-tempted to shoot it out with these Garda bastards.’

  Nathan couldn’t believe it. Max had only just popped the frock on and he was already doing the usual actor crap. Nothing in the world frustrates writers more than when actors claim to be getting ‘inside’ a role, and refuse to drop it. This is because the writer, who has normally created the character, suddenly finds him or herself being told that they understand nothing about it, that only the actor can truly inhabit the soul of the part. Nathan had no such investment in Max’s current characterisation, but he still hated the way actors tried to imply that acting was ‘real’ and not just pretending.

  Max squatted down and did some deep breathing. He stood up and did some stretching. He stood on his head. He lay on his back and hummed, the hum growing into an articulated note… ‘mmmmmmaaaaAAAAHHHHH ‘ He got up. He was ready. He walked to the window.

  ‘If I come out,’ he shouted in his Rosalie voice, ‘will you be after leaving my Ma and Pa be?’ Rosalie winced somewhat at his choice of language, which seemed to be rooted somewhere in the nineteenth century, but she could not deny that the accent and voice were good.

  ‘We’re not interested in the old couple,’ the Inspector of

  Police replied. ‘You’re all we want, Miss. We’ll bring a truck up, you can walk out, we’ll put you in it and be gone.’

  ‘All right,’ Max shouted. ‘I’m coming out. If you break your word now, the sweet Holy Virgin Mother of God and Jesus will know about it.’

  Max turned away from the window. Rosalie decided to venture a bit of advice.

  ‘Maybe a bit less of the Irish stuff,’ she whispered.

  Nathan could have told her it was madness. You just did not criticise an actor mid-performance. Max may have been falling in love with Rosalie, but an actor is always an actor first and a human being second. He turned on her with a look of such ferocity and contempt that she actually backed away.

  ‘Look, babe!’ he hissed, ‘I’m the poor bastard who’s actually got to make some sense of this crappy little part! I’m the dumb schmuck who’s actually got to get out there and fucking do it!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Rosalie whispered. ‘Actually, I think it’s brilliant. I really do.’

  She was catching on fast.

  Max collected himself. They could hear a truck drawing up outside.

  ‘Just go out there and fucking enjoy it,’ Nathan murmured under his breath.

  Max picked up his automatic rifle and, holding it above his head, kicked open the cottage door and stood, silhouetted in the dawn light. He paused for a moment and then cried, ‘Before God I surrender my worthless body to you, but my immortal soul you shall not have! That I keep for myself and the Earth which bore me. And I tell you now, you agents of immoral laws, better men and women shall follow me and a new law will prevail! A law for life and for the planet! A law for children! A law for the future! You cannot stop us, for we are the Earth and all that lives upon it!’

  With that, Max hurled his gun down and stepped forward towards the truck where the Inspector of Police was waiting, visibly moved.

  ‘Miss,’ he said, ‘I have to take you in, but let me say it grieves me to do so.’

  ‘You must do your duty as you see it, Inspector,’ said Max and, walking past him coldly, he climbed into the back of the Garda truck, handling the dress like he’d been born in one.

  From the cottage they watched as the Garda pulled away, police gunmen retreating from behind every bush and rock.

  ‘All I hope,’ Rosalie said, ‘is that when I do go, I go one half as well as that.’

  The sign of a good performance.

  God he had been good.

  As the Garda truck pulled away from the tiny stone cottage and began to bump slowly along the rutted dirt track, it flooded in upon Max just how good he had been. The performance of a lifetime! Had such a triumph ever been presented at the New York Met or by the Royal Shakespeare Company? Max thought not. He had successfully hoodwinked armed police into accepting that he was a wanted green terrorist, a female wanted green terrorist. And the show was not over yet, the fat lady was a long way from singing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’. Here he was in the back of a truck, with two constables and an inspector not three feet from him and still his extraordinary characterisation continued to utterly encapsulate his audience. He had them eating out of his hands.

  God, he was good.

  But theatre is a bitch of a mistress, as they say. She always wants more, more! More! She won’t let go until she’s handcuffed you to the bed, spanked you hard and made you plead for mercy. Max knew he must focus! Concentrate and focus! That was all great acting consisted of, concentration and focus, and good bones, of course. Good bones were terribly important, but fortunately Max had been amply blessed in that department. Concentrate! Mustn’t lose it now, must focus. Max discreetly checked that his knees were right… not glued together, Just gently side by side, an unaffected, girlish, athletic grace was what was required, not some tarty come-on pose.

  Perfect, the legs were perfect. Now, hold the body firm, don’t slouch, you’re Joan of Arc, not some used-up bar girl. Proud bust. ‘If you’ve got it,’ Max thought, ‘flaunt it.’ Don’t thrust, though! Make the bosom work for you not vice versa. Now the head. Chin turned slightly away, let it drop, sullen, but defiant. The tiniest gap between the lips, short, angry breaths… And the eyes! The eyes are everything. ‘If you get the eyes right,’ Max’s old triple-M (movement, massage, meditation) tutor used to say, ‘you can play the part in a tutu and rubber waders and people will believe in you.’ Let the eyes blaze. Fire and defiance. A cornered dog. A wild thing trapped.

  Max’s spirits soared. How long could he maintain the pretence? To trial, perhaps? Could he actually get himself imprisoned? The theatrical possibilities were mind-boggling… and when the story came out! He would be the toast of Hollywood. A play would be written. A movie made! There would be personally sponsored VR games … ‘Max Maximus asks “Could you act we
ll enough to kid the cops and save the world?”’ Max had struck a blow for all actors! He had proved that their very special and delicate talents could be used to protect the environment. That they were not just a bunch of neurotics who liked dressing up, but crack assault troops in the battle of life. Max was positively tingling with his triumph.

  Not physically, of course. As far as the policeman and woman sitting opposite him were concerned, he was not triumphant but defeated. His whole body suggested a wild woman chained and captive. Except for one bit. One bit of his body suggested neither a woman nor captivity. For unbeknownst to Max, his private excitement was beginning to show. Just as it had done on his last morning with Krystal, Max had often teased a reluctant appendage into action by dwelling upon his enormous talent, and on this occasion the process was underway without even being prompted. The Inspector and the woman constable watched in astonishment as a bulge appeared in their captive’s lap. Whilst inwardly discreetly congratulating himself on his brilliance, outwardly Max was taking a standing ovation. The Garda could not believe their eyes as the bulge strained at the cloth of the dress and thrust itself ever upwards. Growing right there in front of them, reaching up to the feminine chin that rested in the delicate cupped hands above it. ‘J’accuse,’ that straining bulge seemed to be saying, ‘j’accuse. This woman is not a woman and I, a proud, full-blooded erection am here to prove it.’

  Busted.

  Back at Ruth and Sean’s cottage, Rosalie was just getting ready to leave when the Garda returned.

  It was a cruel blow. Moments before, they had been celebrating Max’s extraordinary success. Rosalie knew that she owed him a favour and she promised Nathan that if he remained in Dublin she would re-establish contact the moment Max reappeared.