Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  “Here,” she said throwing a rope to the two security men, whose walkie talkie aerials and power packs could be seen bulging in the small of their backs. They bent to catch the line and then assisted the glamorous woman onto the wooden deck of the pier. She ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her dress.

  “Thanks boys,” she said as she slipped the two guards €50 each and walked down the jetty to the party. The Riva had drawn more than a few envious glances. She was pretty sure she had seen Marcus watching as she sauntered towards the revelers, but he could wait.

  He had indeed seen Mako. The little girl from the photo between the lions had grown into a truly beautiful woman. He smiled at how she had arrived, guess there’s no point in making an entrance if no one is watching.

  As Marcus turned back to the party, he saw a familiar face, though now more lined. Robert Kelso. The director was standing next to a lean suntanned man of about forty with a crown of dark curly hair, broad shouldered and dressed in black right down to his pointed Prada patent leather shoes. The man was looking from one face to the next, presumably to spot anyone famous. A first timer thought Marcus.

  “Robert, good to see you made it,” Marcus said striding over to the director. “It’s been far, far too long. You look great. I wish to God Sam was here with us.”

  Kelso nodded. “A great loss,” Robert held out his hand in greeting but held in any emotion. Not a hint of warmth. “Marcus, this is Christo,” said Robert.

  “Hi. Welcome to the mad house,” Marcus said. Christo smiled in acknowledgement.

  “We on for tomorrow? 11:30?” Marcus asked, turning to shake Christo’s hand.

  Kelso seemed distracted looking at someone in the crowd. After a moment he turned back to Marcus saying without much enthusiasm.

  “You know where it is? On time please. The code on the lift is 1234. So much for French security,” he added with a shrug. “Look I’m sorry I was slow getting back to you. The whole Sam thing shook me up. My first reading was probably too emotional. I’m less sure now. What I have decided is it’s time to come back and direct. I have had a huge number of offers, more than I could have hoped for; so, FALL OUT is on a long list of options.”

  Cannes was doing its best to grind away all of Marcus’ optimism in just one day. “First impressions are usually right, let’s do this together,” Marcus countered.

  Kelso shrugged. “We’ll see. Till tomorrow,” he said. The director turned away and walked over to one of the stars that had provided the voice-over for the movie.

  Kelso guessed from his lunch with Louis and the expression on Marcus’ face that he was desperate. But once he had the rights, Louis and Marcus could both go jump in a lake.

  Mako glowed. Men made passes at her, while insecure women who saw her glamour as a challenge, threw dart-like bitchy remarks behind her back. She glided over the sand in her flat shoes, plucking a tequila shot glass from the tray of a passing construction worker. The director of the 3-D animation movie came over to her with a slightly fidgety PR girl at his side.

  “Ms. de Turris. Great event. Best party so far,” he complimented her, the PR agent nodding in agreement. “The studio is thrilled. Must have taken you ages to design this.”

  “It takes you guys up to 13 hours to do a single animation frame,” smiled Mako. The director raised an eyebrow in surprise at the depth of her knowledge.

  “So this is a piece of cake,” she grinned.

  “Expensive cake from what I hear; the suits squawk about your bill,” he shot back with a grin. The PR girl flinched and a smiling Mako bowed and then moved back into the crowd to mingle with more guests.

  * * *

  Marcus was mesmerized by her. Men’s stares trailed in her wake, yet when she stopped to talk, you could see her utter commitment to what she was saying mixing with the fire in her eyes, reflecting from the burning braziers. This woman was all about passion, and nearly everyone she talked to seemed drawn into what she was saying and how she said it.

  “I hear she’s a terrific root,” said a strong Australian accent who had sidled up to Marcus and saw where his eyes were looking. “So long as you aren’t in business with her, that is. We bloody hire her company every year, so she’s off limits, more’s the pity.” He took another long draw on his drink.

  Marcus gave a polite smile to this uninvited commentary.

  “On the other hand, I wouldn’t say no to that either,” he said waiving the glass in his hand.

  Marcus followed his leering glance. An Uma Thurman look-alike was gliding elegantly across the sand.

  “Hi kiddo,” the Australian whispered under his breath as she walked by “or should I say Mrs. Kiddo,” he said a little louder the moment she passed.

  “Mrs. Kiddo?” Marcus asked, the name leaping from Sam’s screenplay.

  “You know, from the Tarantino movie. She plays The Bride. Her name was Kiddo.”

  “Which movie?”

  “Kill Bill. Tarantino at his bloodiest! Kiddo was the one who killed Bill.”

  Marcus was in shock as he ran the man’s last sentence through his mind again and again. He could not believe he hadn’t made the connection himself. Sam was very deliberate when choosing names and what he was saying was very clear. Kiddo killed Bill.

  Mako caught a glimpse of Marcus talking to that oaf of an Australian who had spent every meeting she had ever had with him talking to her breasts. To be fair, Marcus didn’t look as if he was enjoying himself.

  Marcus walked over and stood patiently while Mako finished her conversation with a teenage actor. She knew he was there and extended her discussion for a minute longer in an attempt to show she was in control. Eventually she finished and turned to Marcus. “Great party. I hope you liked the gift,” Marcus held out his hand. She looked blankly at him then reached for the badge around his neck to get the name. Cute, thought Marcus.

  Mako had seen him coming. He had a genuine, open face, almost innocent, with an endearing smile, which he gave with his head cocked on one side.

  “Ah, Marcus Riley. Yes. Thanks. I looked inside the box after I took the model out but couldn’t find it.”

  Marcus gave a quizzical frown. “The catch,” she explained.

  Easy does it, Marcus thought to himself. Try not to come off as a jerk. “No catch, except the invitation to the best party in Cannes.” He looked around, noticing the care her company had expended.

  Even the assembled tools and girders when lit by a spotlight above, threw a shadow onto the sand of the studio’s instantly recognizable logo. Clever and fantastic attention to detail.

  “Your work is really special. It must hurt like hell that it only lasts a moment or two.”

  “I like to think it’s appreciated during its short life… as well as being original,” she countered. “And you?”

  “Original in my business means no one worked out where you stole your idea from.”

  She looked at Marcus as if waiting for an explanation. “Glad you liked the model, but I do need your help.”

  Then Marcus blew it. “I remember hearing when visiting your father a while back that the Riva was a passion and I thought…”

  Mako’s whole expression turned cold.

  “I don’t know when you had this little tête-à-tête with my father as he was in a coma for some time, but he knows nothing about me. Too late now anyway. He died a couple of days ago. So whatever you came to find out, forget it.” She turned and quickly strode away.

  The vehemence of what she said took Marcus totally by surprise. He had no idea the rift between them was so deep, let alone that Stefan had just died. Marcus actually felt for her, all that pent-up anger and frustration. What had caused such a catastrophic breakdown between father and daughter?

  He turned and followed her down the dock. She heard his footsteps on the wooden boards and turned as the guards untied the ropes.

  “Just fuck right off. At least you won’t have to report back on your failure to get to me.” She turned
her back on him and strode off.

  He kept right on walking behind her. Mako glared. The security guards drew up to full height, all buzz cuts and muscle, blocking Marcus’ way.

  She twisted the key, fired the engines and then felt a judder. Marcus had neatly sidestepped the security guards and jumped into the stern of the boat onto the large white sunbathing mattress that sat like a saddle over the stern of the boat covering both massive engines.

  “We have to talk. Throw me into the sea later but give me a chance.”

  Mako turned and glowered at him. “Chances aren’t given, they’re taken.” She gave a nod to the security guards that it was OK, then punched both throttles forward. Marcus tumbled over backwards onto the large built-in white cushion.

  * * *

  From his vantage point in the shadows on the beach, Jonathan watched them go, the music replaced by the sounds and sight of the fireworks lighting up the sky.

  29

  ON BOARD MELINDA 2, MEDITERRANEAN

  Mako deliberately aimed the prow of her boat diagonally at each crest rather than let it run in the cradle between the waves. The resulting crash of hull against water threw curtains of sea spray over the cockpit, which was protected by the windshield yet drenching Marcus at the stern. He shouted something at her, the wind whipping his words away and his accreditation badge fluttering round his face.

  He was beginning to wonder if some of what that Australian had said was true. Mad bad bitch. He had just wanted to find out what she might know about the past. He had chosen an introduction with no ulterior motive other than to give her something he knew she would appreciate. In return he was being soaked and ignored just because he mentioned her father.

  He drew himself up and gripped his way up the boat using the seats to cling on to. Once behind her, he reached forward and firmly pushed the throttles to stop. He flicked on the internal lights. For good measure he yanked the keys from the ignition.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus said, panting lightly from the effort.

  “Don’t be. I hated him.”

  “No, I’m sorry you are so angry with him, and he died before you could resolve it,” Marcus replied.

  “You have no idea… and your parents?” Her voice trailed off for a second. Then she looked at him directly. “Perfect like their errand boy son, I suppose?”

  “Loved ’em up to 12 years old, questioned them on every decision up to 15, then didn’t even listen until I was 22. At that point I guess we just forgave each other, or more likely they forgave me.” He took a breath, flipped the seat bottom on his side of the front bench and sat down. She hesitated, trying to figure out if he was friend or foe.

  “I need to speak to you. For myself,” he said after a long pause.

  “My father. He didn’t send you…?” She lowered herself onto her side of the bench.

  “In a way he did.” He looked her in the eyes and continued. “The last time I saw your father was only a few days ago. He couldn’t help me, but I learned about you. The last time I actually spoke to him was many years ago… after a man died,” Marcus said as calmly as possible.

  Mako was silent for a moment, the boat swaying in the choppy water. “Who died… and why did you want to see him again,” she asked?

  “A few months ago, a screenplay called FALL OUT was sent to him… and to me and at least three other people. Our only common link is a movie. A disaster out in the Philippines that stopped shooting due to the death of the movie’s stunt coordinator, Bill Baines. Your father’s company had issued the completion bond…” Under a sky brimming with fireworks, the craft slowly drifted out towards Morocco, and Marcus told Mako about THE LAST COMPANY, Robert Kelso, Louis McConnell, Cara and Bill Baines, Sam Wood, his last script, the break-in, and Marcus’ own promise to Jax. He explained the plot of FALL OUT and his worry as to why the others had received a copy.

  “Like all great stories, is based on a nugget of truth. Trouble is, I think that nugget may be bigger than I had bargained for. I was hoping your father might help; if he could see references to our shared past in Sam’s script. Obviously he never read it. It was, however, sent to you.”

  “Well I never read it, why would I?” She thought for a moment looking out to sea. “You think there’s some truth in what this Sam person was saying… THE LAST COMPANY was a front for dealing in guns?”

  Marcus hesitated, weighing up the implications.

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t put it past my father to be involved in shit like that. Right up to his neck,” she added curtly.

  “No, I don’t think so. We were in the middle of nowhere. There was no major civil war going on or any need to have a huge arms stash.”

  “So you say,” Mako replied.

  “Sam just had an uncanny ability to ruffle people’s feathers.

  FALL OUT is fiction, pure and simple,” said Marcus more trying to convince himself than Mako.

  “He did more than ruffle feathers. Marcus, you are just avoiding the obvious. Something in that script got him killed…?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No, can’t be. It was a simple break-in. Bad luck.”

  “If you believe that, why come here on your white horse to warn me?”

  “I didn’t come to rescue you. To be honest, it was purely selfish. I really need this movie. I wanted your father, or maybe you, to tell me that it was nothing other than a great screenplay, to stop worrying about ghosts and make the film.”

  Mako was impressed at his brutally honest approach. “I told you, we never speak… I mean spoke.”

  “And the screenplay?”

  “Been lying around my house for weeks. Garance, my housekeeper, even picked it up and asked me about it. Each time I got curious I stopped. It reminded me of my father. I think Garance did mention a couple of calls about it though. Why?”

  “Calls?” Marcus asked nervously, “Do you remember from whom?”

  “No. I told you. My father’s world is not mine,” she said firmly.

  He wanted to change the subject. He didn’t want to alarm her. “Decision time. Do you want to talk about your father…? or push me overboard?”

  “Both,” she replied with a laugh, beginning to relax at last.

  She had never discussed her father with anyone; yet here was someone she had known barely an hour and she was opening up to him. She leaned down under the wheel and flipped open a small fridge, pulling out a bottle of champagne.

  “Not that we have a lot to celebrate,” she said as she unwrapped the foil, expertly twisting off the wire. There was a hiss as she turned the bottle and removed the cork, which she dropped still wrapped in its wire cage onto the Riva’s wooden floor. “No glasses,” she added as she took a slug, the champagne frothing at her lips. She handed him the bottle. “My father destroyed the only two people I loved. My mother and my younger self.”

  Marcus sensed she trusted him now and relaxed a bit on the bench.

  “My mother’s parents fled from China and settled in the US. She was everything I wanted to be. Clever, brimming with style, full of love and life. It’s from her I got my passion for art and beauty. The love of Asian art was the one thing she showed my father that stuck. They collected quite a bit together over the years.”

  Marcus took that as a modest understatement in view of what he had seen at her father’s house in London.

  “My father wasn’t around much. I really only saw them together at Christmas at our holiday home in Switzerland. I couldn’t really judge their relationship. But whatever it was, he threw it all away.”

  “He was successful and traveled. Never makes for a great family man,” observed Marcus.

  “Ha. That old excuse,” she replied bitterly.

  She fingered the delicate antique Chinese hair pin in her hair.

  The ivory and gold piece of jewelry had been one of the presents her father had hidden for her in the special game of hide and seek they used to play on Christmas morning. It seemed so long ago. The holidays in the snowy ret
reat were one of the few times during her childhood that she had spent time with him.

  “I grew up in boarding schools in Europe but went to Colombia… to study architecture, believe it or not.” She paused. “Unlike many of the girls there, I thought beauty was not synonymous with youth. I looked at everything from a long-term perspective, and I guess I came across as aloof. Their endless superficial pursuits went against everything my mother instilled in me.”

  Marcus leaned forward and helped himself to a mouthful of champagne. He handed her the bottle.

  “After I graduated, I took an extended break to travel around China. To see firsthand some of the treasures and craftsmanship my mother had lovingly described to me and find myself, a bit. A cliché but true.” She took a sip.

  “I’d been on a trek in the middle of nowhere for two weeks. Came back to my hotel to find two messages, each barely a few days apart. The first from my mother. Cryptic. Made no sense. ‘Your father has betrayed us, call me. He has misjudged me.’” Mako took a second slug of champagne.

  “The second from my father was equally short. Just to come home immediately, my mother had got something so wrong. No way back then could I make a call in the wilds of China. I was frantic. It took me many days to reach an airport. At last on the way home the plane stopped in Moscow. I was able to call the family lawyer, Robin Vallings. He broke it to me as gently as he could that my mother had died of an embolism. The last leg of that flight back to London was the loneliest of my life. I was sad, hurt, angry, and confused.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Marcus.

  “Don’t be. When I landed, I became a different woman. Nothing and no one can be relied on for permanence. Life can end in a beat. Love can be deceived and betrayed. The here and now and myself are all I have. I returned to the house to confront my father. He always had an eye for a pretty girl. Must have been screwing someone behind my mother’s back, but he tried to deny it. That made me even angrier. His betrayal killed her. After the funeral service, I never wanted to see him again. The only thing left to explain is how my mother never saw through him…