‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, her eyes moistening.
‘I don’t know. I’ve got to think.’
‘Your career will be ruined if this ever gets out. I’m sorry, Rick.’
‘Yeah, I can see the headlines now – investigated by the law to find out what I knew, dumped by Metropolitan because of the damage done to them. It doesn’t look good.’ He groaned. A sound came from inside the shack and Betsy got up to investigate. He was left alone with his troubled thoughts. The dog lay watching him, chained to its post. You can never escape, he said to himself. You and me, buddy, we’re fastened down good and proper.
Betsy came out, sat down beside him. ‘He’s asleep. I nearly lost him, Rick. And it’s all been my fault, for ever getting him into this mess in the first place, then for staying here with you when we should have moved on. He got word from the repair yard he worked for that the law had been sniffing around looking for him and it’s been screwing up his mind thinking he could be caught any minute. But he’s stayed here for me, because he knows how much it means to me, and it’s all been too much for him.’ She winced and clutched her midriff. Adjusted her position on the seat to make it more comfortable. ‘Maybe we just ought to go.’
‘No, don’t leave me, Betsy,’ he said, his breathing shallow. ‘We’ve got a kid coming, a family of our own. I never had a real family.’
‘What about Peter, about what he’s done?’
‘Davey. You only ever call him Davey from now on, because that’s who he is now. We’ll make sure we’ll find somewhere he’ll feel safe. What he did he did for you, because you’d been brutally raped. He was protecting his sister. The man, this John Saunders, deserved to die. You’d have stood no chance against Saunders’s word in a court of law – a pair of drifters from outside the area testifying against a respected writer. Your word against his. Where’s the justice in that?’
‘So you’re not going to turn us over to the cops?’
‘No way. We’ve got too much going for us. I’m not going to let a dead slimeball ruin it for us.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and she gasped in pain. ‘Are you okay, Betsy?’
‘If they ever found out you covered up for us…’ she said, her eyes screwing up.
‘They won’t. What’s wrong?’ Mason looked down to see a puddle forming on the bench. ‘Jesus, Betsy, your waters have broken! It can’t be happening now!’
‘Tell that to –’ She sucked in a breath. ‘You’ve got to get me to a hospital, Rick, right away!’
‘What about Davey?’
‘I told him he was safe. He’s sleeping things off. You can call back and check up on him for me after you’ve got me to the hospital.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Guess all this excitement was the kick it needed, huh?’ She gave a tired smile.
He helped her to the car. ‘Don’t you worry, Betsy,’ he said, ‘I’m going to take good care of you. You’re safe with me. Just you make sure that boy of mine is okay.’
‘Boy?’ she gasped.
‘Boy,’ he echoed, his eyes narrowing with determination as he climbed behind the wheel. ‘My son.’
* * * *
26
The Devil Rises
There was a crowd of people outside the studio gates, waving hand-painted placards, the security guards looking jumpy. Rick Mason’s car drew up and the people surged forward to surround it; the vehicle came to a sudden halt as if it had driven into a thick swamp. Fists began to hammer on the windscreen, the hood, a sea of angry, twisted faces peering in and shouting at him.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked of the driver.
‘Don’t know, sir,’ he replied, a touch of nervousness in his voice. ‘But I don’t like it. Want me to back away?’
The guards were shooing away the crowd, the studio gates beginning to open to let the car through. Mason caught sight of the writing, mostly emblazoned in red, on the placards.
DEVIL WORSHIPPER; BAN DRAGUTIN’S BRIDE; SHAME! SHAME! SHAME! RICK MASON, SATAN’S MOUTHPIECE and so on.
‘That directed at me?’ Mason said incredulously. He was totally taken aback by this kind of reception. He flinched as a couple of eggs hit the car’s windscreen and smeared the livid, hateful faces, making them even more grotesque. ‘Who is this crazy bunch?’
The car managed to squeeze through the gates which were slammed shut after it. The crowd rammed up close against the metal bars, the guards powerless to do anything about it, overwhelmed by sheer numbers and manic determination. A few more eggs flew over the top of the gates after the car but missed. Mason asked the driver to stop so he could get out. The boiling, hissing crowd were about twenty yards away.
‘What is wrong with you?’ he shouted.
The chant of ‘Devil, devil, devil,’ floated angrily over to him.
‘You’re all nuts!’ he responded. ‘Look at the state of my car!’
He didn’t see the young woman run out from behind a stack of scenery a few yards to his left. Too late he realised she had something in her hands that she was about to throw. He brought up his arm to shield his face. A wave of red paint washed over his head, arm and shoulders. He gasped in shock, spitting out the vile stuff that had gotten into his open mouth.
‘Devil!’ she shouted. ‘You’re the devil’s advocate! Metropolitan is in league with the forces of darkness!’
Dripping with paint, he strode over to her and struck her hard across the face, leaving a bright-red smear on her cheek. ‘Bitch!’ he said. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ He struck her again, this time with his fist and the woman collapsed to the floor.
Two guards hurried to his aid and dragged the woman to her feet. ‘We got her, sir!’
‘I’ll kill you for that!’ Mason snarled.
The driver came over and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Leave her, sir, she’s not worth it. This way. Get this filthy stuff off you.’
‘Devil’s advocate!’ said the woman, spitting out blood. The guards brusquely bundled her away.
Mason stood there, resisting his driver’s pulling, the red paint dripping off him. Hell, what have I just done, he thought? I’ve struck a woman. I’ve never done that before, never felt such a rage. If the guards hadn’t come along when they had…
‘Sir,’ the driver urged. ‘Ignore them. They’re religious freaks, that’s all. Twisted religious freaks.’ He encouraged Mason to move on leaving a blood-red trail of footprints on the yard floor.
‘I heard about the ruckus,’ said Conrad Jefferson, coming round from behind his desk. He shook Mason’s hand.
‘You need better security,’ Mason complained. They’d found a fresh set of clothes for him, but their fit was far from perfect. ‘Who are they, do you know?’
‘A religious protest group,’ said Hal Bremner from behind him. He was pouring out a drink. He held it out. ‘You look like you need one,’ he said, sitting down on a sofa. ‘These little incidents have been springing up all over the country, organised, we think, by a right-wing religious organisation called The Church of the Holy Reckoning. Mainly they’re targeting the Metropolitan-owned chain of theatres, trying all sorts of measures to get people to boycott them.’
‘What have they got to complain about?’ said Mason. ‘It’s only a movie, in heaven’s name!’
‘In heaven’s name,’ Jefferson joined. ‘Very apt. It’s more than just a movie to some people, Rick. It’s stirred up one heck of a hornets’ nest. Metropolitan’s come under heavy fire recently for producing a movie that encourages sadism, bloodletting, the torture of women, drug-induced rape – there’s a growing list. Some of the smaller theatres are refusing to screen Dragutin’s Bride. We’re corrupting the young of the United States, apparently. We’re also the harbinger of doom, death, destruction, even another European war in the not-too-distant future. All baloney, but useful baloney, eh, Hal?’
‘Sure. The movie is dividing opinion. The mailbag for Dragutin is growing daily, from young women in particular. You should read
some of that stuff, Rick; there are some real sick broads out there.’ He grinned.
Jefferson joined Bremner on the sofa, invited Mason to sit down opposite. ‘Thing is, the bluenoses at the National Board of Review are sniffing round us again, and we don’t know yet what that means for Dragutin’s Bride. I’ve been pulling strings there again with the connections I’ve got, tried to oil the wheels, but truth is they’re going to be keeping a close eye on the next movie that’s for sure. But what it does do is give us a hell of a lot of publicity. Our press agent is having a field day with it all!’ He poured a drink for himself, noticed Mason hadn’t touched the glass Bremner had given him. ‘Still not a drinker, Rick?’ he asked, shaking a bottle of malt.
Mason downed the hot liquid in one go. Coughed a little.
‘You broke that woman’s jaw,’ said Bremner.
‘Shit, no!’ said Mason.
‘Shit, yes. But we can smooth that over as much as we can. You’ve got to keep out of trouble, though, Rick. If this gets in the press it could cause you lots of bother. We’re hoping the woman’s religious convictions can be bought.’ He took a big swig of alcohol. ‘Why’d you do that, Rick? Smack a woman in the mouth?’ His eyes were steely.
‘Never mind the broad,’ Jefferson interjected. ‘Let’s get down to The Devil Rises, shall we?’
‘So that’s the official title, is it?’ said Mason. ‘That little crowd of bible-thumpers out there will love that one when they hear it.’
‘How’s Betsy, Rick?’ said Jefferson unexpectedly. ‘And how’s the baby – what’re you calling it?’
‘Edward. Eddie,’ said Mason. He looked from Jefferson to Bremner and back again. ‘The baby’s doing just fine. Betsy’s not so good yet.’
‘How are her legs?’
‘She can just about walk on crutches, but it’s a slow process.’
‘Sounds like she’s had a bad time,’ said Bremner. ‘Having a kid can be bad enough, but to get an infection like she did…’
Mason sighed, rubbed his eyes. He felt so damn tired all the time. ‘Yeah, whatever it was affected her legs real bad. She thought she was paralysed at first, but thankfully that’s not the case. The doctors don’t rightly know what it is yet, what’s actually causing it. Someone even said it might be in her head, you know, the trauma of childbirth and all that…’ He studied the two men closely. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’ he asked. ‘I can see by your faces you’re cooking something up between you.’
‘Thing is, Rick,’ said Bremner, a glance from Jefferson his cue to talk, ‘we can’t afford to go behind on the shooting-schedule. We borrowed heavily against the movie to help finance it and we’ve got interest piling up every day we lose, and we’re already pushing things back as far as we can to accommodate Betsy and this pregnancy. Now there’s this other thing with her legs. You get what I’m saying here?’
Mason’s jaw hardened. ‘Spell it out for me, just so I’m sure.’
‘We have to drop Betsy from the production.’
‘It’s her part. You can’t do that.’
‘Yes we can,’ said Bremner. ‘Her contract allows us to do it.’
‘So who will you give the part to?’
‘Bunny Foster,’ Bremner replied.
‘Bunny? I’ve seen her tests. She’s OK but she’s not a patch on Betsy, and she doesn’t even look the part. She’s all tits and teeth.’
‘Tits and teeth are what the paying public want,’ said Jefferson. ‘You know that. They aren’t paying to see Shakespeare. Look at it from our point of view, Rick; we have to move fast on this or things will get out of hand.’
‘You drop Betsy and you’ll have to drop me!’ he fired.
‘Fine,’ said Bremner. ‘Then we’ll drop you, too.’
‘I think you’re forgetting I made Baron Dragutin. He’s me. The movie is my movie. I’ve got shares in Metropolitan that says it’s my movie.’
‘Wrong,’ said Bremner icily, putting his glass down loudly. ‘You’re an actor, Rick. If we want, we can put any guy we like into that damn mask, behind that makeup, and the audience won’t know the difference. They pay to see Dragutin, not you. As for your shares in Metropolitan, if this company goes down your shares go down with it, and if we don’t begin shooting soon we’ll go down as fast as the bloody Titanic.’
‘I am Dragutin, you slimy bastard!’ Rick said, rising angrily from his seat and aiming a fist at Bremner’s eyes. ‘You can’t easily take that away from me and give it someone else!’
‘You threatening me, Rick? Planning to smash my jaw like you smashed that woman’s? Go ahead, you do that. Do that and you’re finished, not only at Metropolitan but in Hollywood. We can see to that.’
‘I’ll kill you if you did, Bremner!’ he growled.
‘Now, gentlemen, let’s not be too hasty,’ Jefferson said. ‘We have a movie to make and all this talk of killing one another don’t help matters any. Sit down, Rick,’ he said. ‘I said sit,’ he asked more firmly. Rick hesitated, then lowered himself to the seat. ‘We have to drop Betsy, OK? OK, Rick? You got that?’
Mason conceded, nodding slowly. ‘Seems I don’t have any choice in the matter.’
‘Seems you don’t,’ said Bremner.
‘Don’t push it!’ Rick said.
‘Great, we’ve got ourselves a deal,’ Jefferson enthused. He raised his glass. ‘To The Devil Rises!’ he said.
‘The Devil Rises,’ Bremner muttered.
Mason didn’t say a word.
* * * *
27
Flaming Hell
‘Where’s my son?’
Rick Mason tossed his coat at the coat stand and missed.
The nanny, an elderly-looking woman, skinny as a rake, was carrying a mound of white towels. ‘He’s in the nursery, Mr Mason, fast asleep. I’ve just come from there,’ she explained. ‘Do you want me to bring him out to you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll go in and see him. Don’t go waking the kid. He hardly sleeps as it is.’ He tried to force a smile but it wouldn’t come. ‘And Betsy? How’s she?’
‘The same, sir. In her room. The doctor is with her, the one she called in.’
‘Is she still refusing to see the child?’
The nanny nodded uncertainly. ‘Some mothers find it difficult to bond with their babies. She’s just going through a tough patch. She’ll get better in time, you’ll see.’
She left Mason to go about her business and he went upstairs to the nursery. There was an elaborate wicker crib in the room’s centre. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air. Lemon-coloured walls. Model planes hanging from the ceiling which had been painted to look like a sky full of rolling white clouds. He went over to the crib. The crown of the baby’s head was just visible above the woollen blankets. A mass of dark, tufty hair. He could smell baby. Soft, warm, inviting, drawing him closer like the smell of fresh-baked bread or coffee. He stroked his son’s miniscule, perfectly formed ear and smiled as he stirred beneath his feather-soft touch. Hell, Eddie, what have you been born into?
He heard a door open and went out of the nursery to see the doctor standing out on the landing, his Gladstone in his hand. Doctor Lombard was a gentle-looking soul, middle-aged, balding, expanding paunch, a voice of clinical calmness amidst the madness, Mason thought. Betsy would have nobody else but Doctor Lombard. Heaven knows where she dragged him from, but he appeared to be a good old fella.
‘How is she, doc?’
The doctor smiled his familiar easy-going smile and fastened his bag. He indicated with a flick of his head that they walk down further down the landing, away from the bedroom door. ‘She’s still the same. I’m more than a little concerned for her. She still maintains she can’t walk, has taken to using the wheelchair she insisted on.’
‘She can’t walk or won’t walk?’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t find anything physically wrong with her. The infection she had has healed, and I can’t see why it would cause this kind of intermittent
paralysis. In my opinion, it is in her mind.’
‘What’s causing this, doc? She has barely seen her child since he was born.’
‘Has she suffered some kind of trauma recently?’
‘In what way?’
‘Anything so emotionally upsetting that it might have an effect upon her mind?’
Mason averted his gaze, thought about the horrific moment they came across Davey hanging from the ceiling. He shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anything. Will she get better?’
‘Oh yes, I’m certain of it, Mr Mason. In time. All things heal with time.’ Fuzzy grey eyebrows descended into a frown. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mr Mason, you don’t look too good yourself. Are you feeling ill?’
He pumped out a humorous laugh. ‘Feeling like shit if you must know. Truth is, I don’t feel good. Strange thoughts, weird feelings; and I’m so tired all the time, and angry. Getting angrier.’
‘Only natural, Mr Mason. It’s stress. You exist in a pressured environment.’ He opened the clasp on his bag, took out a brown bottle of pills. ‘Here, take two, twice a day, with water, and avoid alcohol – though I know that’s not a problem for you. My advice is for both of you to take things easy, rest up. Enjoy being parents and bask in what you have together.’
‘Do you believe in curses, doc?’ he asked out of the blue.
‘Curses, Mr Mason?’ Doctor Lombard shook his head. ‘Curses do not exist. People have made such things up over the years to account for those events we cannot, or do not wish, to acknowledge as random acts over which we have no control. It is the human condition to seek to rationalise, to explain, even if the explanation appears irrational. Is that what you think is affecting you and your family, Mr Mason? Seriously? You’ve had such good fortune recently, have you not? Wealth, marriage, a successful movie, a son – if that is a curse then there are many who would wish it cast upon them!’
Mason did his best to return Lombard’s smile. It was a pale imitation. ‘You’re right; it’s stress. I need to lie down, take it easy. Thanks for the pills,’ he said, rattling the bottle.
SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense) Page 17