The flow of trucks had thinned as the transformation of the airfield neared completion. Now, tucked away in Quentin’s trailer on the north-east side away from the chaos, Renata struggled to find the words to explain the problems with the script.
‘The issue isn’t what you’re trying to make these characters say,’ she attempted, ‘it’s the lengths you’re going to in trying to make them say it.’
He crossed his legs. Garfield socks today. ‘That’s an hour we’ve been sitting here,’ he said, changing his mind to recross them. ‘Can I be honest?’ Her eyebrow arched. He wasn’t the kind of man to need permission and she knew it. ‘You lost me about fifty-nine minutes ago.’
They stared blankly at each other before erupting into laughter. The pressure in the trailer equalised with this break in tension.
Suddenly the words came to Renata. ‘“That’s an hour we’ve been sitting here”, that’s what you just said.’
His blank expression returned.
She took a deep breath. ‘That’s now an hour that the two of us have been sat here in this trailer talking back and forth about the problems with the dialogue in your script,’ she drawled. ‘And there’s your Quentin C. Rye scripted version. They both say the same thing, but the second is bloated. Your reader – or your viewer, or movie-goer, or whoever – is going to lose interest halfway through. If you’re to earn their investment, you have to strip it back.’
Quentin slipped the hardbound notebook from his pocket and began taking notes, listening intently, knee bouncing.
‘Not only that, but you’re laying it out too neatly for your characters,’ she continued. ‘You have to treat them as you treat your readers: don’t tell them the story, let them discover it.’ He stopped scribbling and looked up. ‘I mean, I didn’t mean to…not that I’ve ever edited a script. I just think—’
‘You’re right,’ he beamed, the pen spinning between his fingers. The Yankee twang was growing on her. ‘You’re right about everything. I’m stunned, Ren. I can already tell you’re going to be a—’
The lights went out.
‘—worthwhile investment.’
‘What happened?’ Renata said. ‘The lights outside are down too.’
It was approaching October and the darkness had been marching earlier every evening. With the floodlights lining the airfield’s perimeter suddenly cut, the site was dropped into total blackness. Renata and Quentin peered through the blinds and saw only the twinkling lights of battery-operated equipment that had been in use by production personnel.
‘Power outage,’ muttered Quentin. She heard plastic rustling in the darkness. ‘Idiots can’t even keep a damned set running. Takes them hours to get it back up. Bonbon?’
‘Oh, uh…no, thank you,’ she said. ‘Pity though, just when we were making progress. Pick up tomorrow?’
A flame leapt from the darkness as Quentin sparked a match. ‘Tomorrow? No, we have work to do. This trailer stinks anyway.’ He began cramming papers into a carrier bag. ‘We’re going to my place.’
Renata’s writing had been a peephole into something which she’d never had for herself, a distorted caricature of something unattainable. She could paint things resembling that thing they called romance, but that’s what they remained: paintings, imitations. The caricatures never begged to be let in, and by god you better believe that door had never been opened. She’d been a spectator, safe and secluded.
Now, this man, this architect of horror, had made romantic gestures the likes of which weren’t meant for her. What did he want? Surely not her, not this tired, aged wretch – not the ‘Neo-Thorrach Buidseach’. Yet here was an invitation to his little place on the other side of town. Work: that was it. The invitation was to finish their work.
The flame died as Quentin opened the trailer door, the panicked voices of his crew audible from across the site. He turned to Renata and held out a hand.
‘Let’s get outta here.’
It reminded her in some ways of her cottage on that storm-battered rock in the Outer Hebrides. Lining the walls of Quentin’s second-floor living room were piles of discarded books. They were lying in heaps, tattered and askew as if thrown across the room once their words had been devoured. The lounge was dotted with cardboard boxes overflowing with horror and thriller novels in seemingly brand-new condition, which she guessed were also destined for the discarded heaps once digested.
‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ said Quentin, draping Renata’s duffle coat over the back of a leather chesterfield. ‘If I’d known my people were going to be so incompetent I’d have tidied up for you.’ He went to the door. ‘Back in a sec, I’ll grab us some drinks.’
‘Quentin, we have work to do.’
‘Just water,’ he called back. ‘Need to stay hydrated if we’re going to fix this car crash of a script.’
The three-storey manor on the outskirts of Millbury Peak was by far the largest residence in town. She couldn’t imagine what it could be used for during its presumably long periods of vacancy, although the dust that coated every surface hinted at the answer: nothing. She’d have to give her hands a good scrub later.
From the living room window she could see the overgrown garden, the weeds having risen long ago to reclaim the patch of land. She looked down at the gravel track leading past the house and was just able to make out his Harley leant against the wall below.
Renata turned around as Quentin’s distant, muffled voice floated up the stairs. She thought of shouting down for him to repeat himself but decided against it, instead carefully stepping towards the door as she tugged nervously at the long sleeves of her woollen sweater.
As she approached the stairs leading to the ground floor hallway, response-length silences between the continuing sentences of Quentin’s voice became evident. He was on the telephone.
‘No, honey. I love you more than anything, you know that. Listen, Sandie, I’m not mad. Actually, screw it. I am. I explicitly told you not to come to England, and what did you do?’
Another response-length silence.
‘You went completely against my wishes.’
And another.
His voice was tinged with the defiant tone of a parent resisting the pleading of their guilty child. From the snippets of conversation, it was clear Sandie had done as her father demanded and boarded the first flight back to the States. The first thing she’d done upon arriving home, apparently, was to pick up the telephone, call ‘Daddy’, and beg for forgiveness. Renata felt a stab of sympathy.
There’d been a time, long ago, when she’d toiled to turn Thomas Wakefield’s resentment of her into favour. How many sleepless nights had she stayed up, just a little girl, constructing that homemade crucifix to replace the glass cross she’d smashed? She’d accumulated an abundance of building materials for the project; empty cereal packets, spent toilet roll tubes, a miniature paint set, PVA glue from arts and crafts class, all stuffed at the back of her wardrobe waiting to be built into her masterpiece, her apology.
The thing had stood as tall as her (well, up to her waist at least) and had boasted a wealth of colours that would have made Joseph jealous. Who needed a Technicolour Dreamcoat when you had an original Renata Wakefield homemade crucifix?
Yeah, she’d still been able to make out the remnants of the bruise on her face. And yeah, it had hurt more than anything she’d experienced in her short life, but it had been nobody’s fault but hers. That’s what the girl had concluded. That glass crucifix was so big and heavy, must have been worth a fortune, and Father had doted on the thing. If she hadn’t been so stupid, so careless, it wouldn’t have broken and he wouldn’t have had to do what he did. If only she’d taken her time going up those steps.
Choo-choo.
Well, this was going to make it all better. With Mother’s permission she’d left it on the sideboard in the living room, its multicoloured tissue paper and glitter standing out like a (colourful) sore thumb in the muted, uniform lounge of the Wakefield residence.
I am very sorry, Father, the note she’d left by its side had read. Hope you like this alot and you luv it cause I luv you alot. God bless. –Renata xx
He’d been back late that night. Although her mother’s wooden smile hadn’t faltered for so much as a second whilst they’d awaited his arrival, Sylvia Wakefield’s apprehension had been obvious. Renata had watched her manic cleaning, going over the same surfaces again and again, dusting imaginary dust. The girl had been good at spotting the signs of her mother’s terror. Finally, the sound of the front door opening had reached them, that sound Renata knew her mother dreaded so. The woman had straightened like a meerkat, her hands flying up to check her intricately fixed head of hair as footsteps sounded from the hallway.
In the little girl’s mind there had been two possible outcomes: either Father would love the gift and all would be forgiven, or she’d find her face squished once again into those cold floorboards before she got the follow-up beating she deserved. In some ways, the girl would later realise, she’d have preferred the beating to what actually happened.
Namely, nothing.
‘Good evening, Father,’ she’d said, her eyes flicking to the multicoloured crucifix on the dresser.
‘Thomas, welcome home,’ Sylvia had chirped, hands clasped neatly behind her back.
Like a raincloud obscuring the sunlight on a green pasture, the crucifix had fallen into darkness as his shadow passed over it. He’d continued on indifferently, Renata’s sculpture afforded not even a glance. She’d watched, dumbstruck, as her father had walked straight past the dresser and sunk into his armchair, today’s Daily Express rising between him and the cross.
And there it had sat for the rest of the week. He must have seen it, surely, but no comment was made. Maybe the allowing of it to sit there undisturbed should have been thanks enough, but a queasy feeling had still materialised in the little girl’s tummy whenever she’d looked at the crucifix and its unread note. Eventually, Mother had gently suggested it might look pretty in Renata’s bedroom instead. Despite the girl’s well-performed, enthusiastic nod, Sylvia Wakefield would later find it crammed into the outside bin, the note lying crumpled by its side. Had she known its disposal to be Renata’s doing? The little girl had cared not.
‘I know, Sandie,’ Quentin continued into the telephone, frustration creeping through his words. ‘Yes, I do know that. You’re the most important thing to me. You’re my world, but what you did was stupid. Really stupid.’
As she tiptoed down the stairs, Renata listened to Quentin scold his daughter. Girl’s doing her best, she thought, give her a break. But at least Sandie’s apology was being so much as noticed.
‘My love, if you stop talking for just one second I’ll explain why I’m so angry.’
Renata eased herself down the steps, listening intently for creaks, pressing her hands against the walls on either side of the staircase in an attempt to somehow displace her—
…a Himalayan trek, an Everest descent…
Her feet touched down on the hall carpet, an invisible imperfection imposed upon perfection. She pressed her body into the alcove at the foot of the stairwell and listened. The voice from the kitchen started up again.
‘I have my reasons, Sandie. Yes, I agree, she’s great, but—’
The earpiece’s pleading into his ear interrupted him. Renata peered round the corner and watched his breathing quicken, his chest puff.
‘YOU WERE NOT MEANT TO GO ANYWHERE NEAR HER.’
This time, she suspected, the silence was not accompanied by a voice in his ear.
She took a step back, eyes wide, mouth dry. Whoever he was speaking about – not me, surely can’t be me – she was sure she wasn’t meant to be hearing this. Her hand found the banister, her feet the staircase.
‘I’m sorry, Sandie. It’s just…I have to protect you. I can’t let anything happen to you, you’re too important to…’
Quentin’s voice faded as Renata quietly returned to the upstairs living room and perched herself on the edge of the couch.
She was clawing at the palms of her hands, the words going through her head again and again – you were not meant to go anywhere near her you were not meant to go anywhere near her you were not – when Quentin plodded back into the room. He kicked off his crocodile skin shoes and set down a jug of water. ‘Straight vodka as ordered,’ he said. ‘Those stairs are a bitch. Knew I should have gone for a B&B.’
He emptied the carrier bag onto the coffee table before collapsing into the couch. Renata got up as he sat down, then stepped slowly to a framed photo of Sandie on the bureau. She had to know more.
The teenager’s eyelashes fluttered out of the frame. Renata picked it up. ‘She’s so pretty,’ she said, probing, watching for his reaction.
The breath caught in her throat as Quentin leapt from the couch and stormed towards her, snatching the frame from her hand and shoving it into the bureau. He slammed the drawer shut, then lumbered back to the couch.
Renata stood silent, mouth agape. She remembered him practically dragging Sandie from her at the film set. Was he trying to keep his darling daughter from her, or could this simply be put down to a grossly overprotective father?
you were not meant to go anywhere near her you were not meant to go—
‘I’m sorry,’ Quentin said, his face warming. ‘I just…Ren, I worry about her, okay? Jumping on flights by herself like that. She’s still just a kid, y’know?’
‘And yet you had a live weapon stuck in her mouth for a movie,’ said Renata. The words slipped from her mouth like soap from wet fingers. She stood frozen.
He shot a glare at her. ‘Don’t question my methods.’ There was the hint of a tear forming in his eye. His love for the girl was uncontainable. ‘She’s my world. I love her more than you could know.’
She swallowed. ‘I’m sure you do. What about your flammable film stock? What do you think of the men in that truck?’ She threw a hand over her mouth, then watched his eyes fall to the floor. Where had that come from? ‘I’m…so sorry, Quentin. I didn’t mean to—’
‘This isn’t the first time my methods have been called into question, and it won’t be the last.’ He sighed as light played on the lenses of his glasses. ‘The gun wasn’t loaded, despite what I told everyone – her included. I could never put her in harm’s way. The goddamn film stock in that truck was the real loaded gun, and it finally went off. Nearly killed two men in the process.’ He lowered his head. ‘Was only a matter of time, I guess.’
‘Why the publicity stunts, Quentin?’ She sat next to him. ‘I may not be the biggest fan of your work, but I see a man overflowing with creativity. That notebook, it’s hardly ever out of your hands. You bleed for your art. Isn’t that enough? Can’t your work speak for itself?’
His eyes locked on hers.
‘Truth,’ he said. ‘It’s all about truth, Renata.’ He leant in, then motioned to the piles of books littering the room. ‘These pages, these stories, every one of them is trying so damned hard to say something with nothing. What was it you said? Saying so little with so much?’ His fists clenched. ‘It’s trash, all of it. Mine especially. Tepid fucking trash. Storytelling is the search for truth through a lie. All these stories – their books, our books, the whole goddamn lot – fiction is meant to be the vehicle in pursuit of truth, not this watered down tripe.’ His eyes deepened. ‘Whatever we write, Renata, it’s for the truth.’
Her body tensed. She’d inadvertently coaxed out the core of this man’s creativity, and it was explosive. They seemed to have hit upon his reason for being – besides his treasured daughter – and he was happy to elaborate.
‘Those stunts were nothing…’ His voice rose. ‘…Nothing but a means by which to drag the truth from what I do.’ A smile crept over his face. ‘The gun: to strike true fear into Sandie. The nitrate film: to place the threat of fire on my actors and audiences. True fire.’ The smile faded. ‘But you’re right. They’re publicity stunts, nothing more. That�
�s clear to me now. But I haven’t given up. I believe I’m on the cusp of a work that’s infused with the very essence of all storytelling.’ A bead of sweat ran down his brow. ‘Pure, inescapable truth. And I’m going to get there. With your help, Renata, we’re going to get there.’
They worked into the night.
Quentin’s explosive explanation of his work should have left Renata on edge, as had the baffling telephone call, but she was in awe. He’d spoken with furious passion, as if his pursuit of this ‘truth’ was but an inch away, yet somehow still outside his grasp. A floodgate seemed to have opened following the outpouring. The intensity with which he discussed the script was now crystalized into pure drive. No more quips, no more comedic interludes. The notebook was now permanently out, his hand scribbling constantly within its tattered pages. It seemed as if whatever he believed to be within his reach was edging closer, and he knew it.
They’d heard the tolling of the midnight bell from across the fields over an hour ago. Renata thought of the young vicar having now spent two nights in the spare room of the Wakefield house. To her surprise, it had been he who’d suggested the lengthening of his stay to give Renata the chance to put some serious time in at the film set. Either he was finally hitting it off with Thomas Wakefield, or he was trying for his scouts badge in the care of abusive old men. Scouts badge it must be.
Quentin cast the final sheet to one side and stared at the empty space where the pile of papers to be worked had been. ‘There’s more,’ he said, ‘but for now, we’re done. I don’t know how to thank you, Ren. You’re so gifted, so talented. You’re…’
For Rye Page 10