by Ray Connolly
By lunchtime a bar had been set up in the castle’s main hall, and a set had been constructed at one end of the courtyard. The transmission was due to take place in the early evening. Since Jim had shown no sign of life since the arrival of the television people, the programme’s producer, Eric Pagett, was beginning to feel just a little anxious.
‘It would be helpful from our point of view if we could have Jim down for a quick rehearsal and make-up, say a couple of hours before transmission,’ said Pagett, with some force, to Porter Lee.
‘Oh, he’ll be here, okay. Right, Mike?’ Porter Lee was full of confidence. This was to be another landmark in his guidance of the career of Jim Maclaine. He was going to make Colonel Parker, Allen Klein, Brian Epstein and Al Grossman look like amateurs by comparison.
‘He’s sleeping now,’ said Mike, wondering whether he actually was or not. ‘I’ll check him out later.’
By five o’clock, with everything set up and the TV crew taking a break, Pagett and his team were becoming a little tense. Jim still hadn’t made an appearance.
‘I really think it’s about time he came down, you know,’ he said to Mike.
‘Okay,’ said Mike and turned to go up the stairs. ‘I’ll go and see him.’
As he moved towards Jim’s room along the balcony, he suddenly noticed a familiar figure moving delicately between the cables and cameras of the television people. Some of the Press had noticed her too, because already they were taking photographs. He hurried back down the steps towards her.
Danielle approached him slowly. ‘Please don’t tell Jim, yet. Is there somewhere I can wait until after the programme ?’
Mike looked at her. She really was remarkably beautiful Lucky Jim. He didn’t deserve her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Stay in the main hall or one of the little rooms. He won’t see you there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Danielle. And for probably the first time ever she smiled at Mike with gratitude.
After settling Danielle, Mike ran upstairs to find Jim. It really was very late and the whole crew were now on tenterhooks. He had even heard talk that they might have to cancel the programme. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He found Jim in a worse state than he could imagine. He had always known he was a coward, but the full force of what cowardice meant in terms of its physical symptoms had never struck him before. Jim was literally shaking with fear and as Mike went in he grabbed his hand in a sweaty, sticky grip. Mike pulled away in some disgust. He didn’t like sweaty people. He liked everything clean and ship-shape. Everything orderly.
‘I just can’t do it Mike. I can’t face it. I’m sorry, Mike. Tell them all to go away. Tell them to leave us alone again. I’m sorry, Mike.’ Jim was whimpering pathetically.
If Danielle could see her hero now, thought Mike, but he didn’t mention her. ‘You have to do it. D’you understand, Jim? There is no way out. You aren’t a child who doesn’t want to go to school any more. Listen, when you were on the fair you humped dodgems because that was your job; when you were on the road you played even when you were dying on your feet, because that was your job. Well, now you’re a fucking star … and you’ll do this show tonight, because that’s your job…’
‘I can’t. Honest, Mike, I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’ Mike looked at him derisively. ‘If you can’t do this you can’t do anything. It’s only another performance. You’ve always liked performing, haven’t you?’ He looked at his watch. It was getting very late. ‘Come on, get your suit on. You’ve got an hour. Have a cup of tea or something. That’ll help.’ He looked at Jim again. ‘Come on, Jim. Do it for me.’
And smiling at Jim he waited for the inevitable nod of agreement from his friend. He had always known how to manipulate him.
Downstairs in the hall tension was at breaking point.
‘He’s getting ready. Panic over,’ said Mike, returning down the stairs.
‘The panic’s still on, sonny. He’s got about twenty minutes to get himself in front of that camera or we’re all doomed,’ said Pagett.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll be here.’ Mike was confident. He knew Jim and wandering round the television crew he made a few friends and did his best to put everyone at ease. Then with less than five minutes before transmission, Jim made his entrance. It had never occurred to Mike what Jim would wear for his interview but he was very surprised to see him in his ornate Dea Sancta suit. He didn’t know he’d even saved it. Amazingly, all traces of nerves appeared to have gone, and though looking tired, Jim was smiling at everyone, moving through the crowds and shaking hands in a good-natured way. The transformation was remarkable.
‘Jim, I want you to meet Luther Eales, who will be interviewing you,’ said producer Pagett, clearing a way for the two of them towards the makeshift set.
‘You’ve come a long way from Des Moines, Iowa, Luther,’ said Jim.
‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’ Luther wasn’t too happy about being reminded of his humble beginnings in television.
‘I forgot to forget,’ said Jim, and sat down limply in his chair.
Out of his vision Danielle watched from the balcony.
At the back of the courtyard Mike turned in relief to Porter Lee: ‘Bloody close thing.’
‘No way. Jim’s a true professional. He was just playing at keeping them waiting. You’ve gotta believe me. I know the boy.’
Like hell, thought Mike, but before he could think of a witty enough answer the Autocue was rolling and Luther Eales was leaning forward towards the camera, speaking in that earnest way that television interviewers take on whenever they feel they are on to a meaningful programme: ‘Good evening. Perhaps more than any other the name Jim Maclaine has become associated with the spirit of international youth. And during a career which, in the last ten years, has taken him from a fairground attendant to pop-singer and now to millionaire recluse, there are many who have come to believe him to be a great artist of the day, perhaps one of the true geniuses to have emerged from his generation.’
Balls, thought Mike, as Eales paused for breath.
‘For three years Maclaine toured Britain and America as the lead singer of the Stray Cats pop group, and then two years ago he performed before the biggest audience in music history when he presented his epic rock symphony Dea Sancta Et Gloria before a worldwide television audience. Since then Maclaine has lived as a virtual recluse here in Spain, seeing no one and being seen by no one. That is, until this evening, when we managed to persuade him to appear live on this programme.’
Luther Eales turned dramatically towards Jim. ‘Jim Maclaine in the past few years you have been compared with some kind of messiah, and your most famous work, Dea Sancta Et Gloria, seemed to many critics to be calling for the spiritual deification of woman. So Jim, exactly how much does God mean to you?’
Jim, lolling back in his chair, paused for a moment. ‘Somewhere between two and three million dollars, I believe … after tax.’
There was a ripple of mixed amusement and consternation among the crew and Pressmen assembled around the courtyard.
Luther Eales tried again: ‘What you’re saying is …’
‘What I’m saying,’ said Jim, ‘is that was the front money, I believe. Then there are the continuing royalties from the album and fees for repeats from the television shows and I suppose, quarterly cheques from the Performing Rights Society, which I imagine must bring in a few bob more.’
In the main hall Porter Lee and Hoffman, watching the broadcast on a monitor screen, exchanged anxious looks. ‘What’s the bastard up to, Felix?’ For once Felix had no answer. Behind them Danielle smiled in delight at Jim’s comments. This was the man she had loved.
Outside in the dying sunlight the interviewer went on: ‘What made you a recluse, Jim?’
‘I’m not a recluse … there’s Mike …’
‘That’s the friend you live with … ?’
Jim crossed his legs effeminately. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And what is Mike’s job
?’
‘That’s hard to say … I suppose you could say he’s chief balloon buster. Anyway, there’s him and me and then there are the whores. There are plenty of them around if you look, although I hate to admit it in a good Catholic country like this. Anyway, they keep me warm.’
Inside the hall Porter Lee was going white with anger. ‘Jesus, the mother’s blowing the whole goddam show.’
Luther Eales, warming to his job, shifted his position earnestly in his chair. ‘Jim, you’re being very outspoken … how do you feel about the fact that your wife and son will be watching this programme … ?’
‘I’ve got a lovely little boy. I must be very proud of him …’ Jim was beginning to sound distant. Inside the main hall Danielle felt tears begin to prick her eyeballs.
Inside the outside-broadcast van producer Pagett was becoming increasingly angry with Jim’s performance. ‘I sometimes wonder why we bother wasting television time and money on prize bastards like this.’
The Spanish director at his side was studying a close up shot of Jim. ‘He looks very tired,’ he said. ‘D’you think he’s drugged?’ Then speaking in Spanish he gave rapid instructions into his microphone. ‘Camera four go very tight … further in … right on his eyes.’
Together the producer and director studied Jim’s eyes. They were beginning to close.
‘Christ. I’m getting out there,’ said Pagett, and sprinted from the van.
‘What about the future, Jim? What does it hold for you?’ Luther Eales was leaning forward desperately now, trying to make Jim concentrate, but all Jim could do was lie back in his chair and giggle softly.
Eales, looking desperate, tried again. ‘Are you planning a return to records, or perhaps more shows … ?’
Again he could get no more than a soft gurgling from Jim. By now his eyes were virtually closed.
‘You could say,’ he said at last in long drawn out slurps of speech. That I’ve got no long term plans.’
With a look of desperation, Luther Eales searched among the confused crew for some kind of cue as to how to handle the situation.
From the back of the crowd Mike began running towards the main hall for the telephone.
But still the interview went on, with Jim by now virtually delirious. ‘None of it’s been worthwhile … but I don’t care … we had a good time … they were good times gigging about on the road … there have been good times, there have been bad times …’
‘The bastard,’ said Porter Lee to Hoffman, as they watched in growing anger by the monitor set. ‘The rotten little lazy bastard.’
‘It’ll be a miracle if he stays awake until the end of the show,’ observed Hoffman, glancing at his watch and beginning a mental count down of the minutes remaining.
Luther Eales was trying one last attempt to keep his interview from collapsing under both of them. ‘What are your favourite recollections of being a superstar, Jim?’
There was a silence and Jim’s eyes closed.
The director inside the outside broadcast van swore vehemently to himself, and then in Spanish ordered the engineer to switch over to a video-tape recording of Dea Sancta.
In the main hall Jim’s face disappeared from the monitors and the full Dea Sancta choir appeared in his place.
‘We’re showing VTR of him doing a show now. We’ll come back to you to close in a couple of minutes. London want to know what the fuck’s wrong with the little bastard …’ Pagett was telling Eales but as he spoke he was pushed aside in Mike’s mad scramble to get on to the set and pull Jim to his feet. Finding the weight of Jim too much for him, he turned pleading to Luther Eales.
‘Give me a hand … for Christ’s sake. Get him up. He’s O.D.’d. Too many Mandies or something. For God’s sake …’ His voice rose in desperation as the message was slow to get through to Eales. ‘He’s taken an overdose. He’s killing himself.’
The producer standing a few feet away also froze in disbelief but as Eales moved to pull the now sleeping Jim to his feet, he suddenly became aware that-he was broadcasting the best news programme of his life.
‘Go live. Now. Cut the VTR,’ he screamed at the director through his microphone.
And again the monitor inside the castle showed Jim. Now he was unconscious and being walked off the set, held up by Eales and Mike. Porter Lee and Hoffman watched numbly. Behind them Danielle’s face crumpled in pain. Outside the castle walls an ambulance bell could be heard approaching.
‘Fantastic,’ said the director, with a professional’s disregard for the elements of human tragedy. ‘Utterly fantastic television.’
Together Mike and Eales helped Jim up into the back of the ambulance, a large army type sent from the local army hospital and passing Jim into the hands of two ambulance attendants, Mike jumped up beside him in the back.
Eales rushed back to his microphone on the set to address the bewildered audience, while the Press took off in their cars to follow Jim to hospital.
Eales, his face fixed in an earnest stare of gravity, began again: ‘At this exact moment no one can be quite sure just what is happening in the ever turbulent world of Jim Maclaine …’
So this is what we’ve come to, thought Mike bitterly as the ambulance skipped across the bumpy road on the way to hospital, Jim supported on his feet by two non-speaking and dour army medical attendants. And as his friend’s eyes flickered into life, the years of pent-up love and hate and disgust which he had tried to hide poured out in a torrent of abuse. Face to face he looked at the pale, pretty face of Jim, and hating him he hated himself. ‘You bastard. You selfish bastard. I made you. Every step of the way, I was the one pulling the strings, making sure you got the breaks, holding your rotten flaming hand … I did everything for you. You were humiliated. What about me. For every one humiliation you ever had I had a million from all those shits who hung on. You’re not gonna fucking well die. I own half of you. I gave you my life. I devoted it to you, so you owe me. D’you hear me? Always bribing and blackmailing for you I was, pulling whores and dope and God knows what shit… you selfish bastard.’
A crowd of sightseers had already heard the news by the time the ambulance pulled into the hospital courtyard, and the Press were there ready to take their macabre pictures as usual. As the attendants half carried Jim from the ambulance Mike punched a photographer out of the way. ‘Good story, isn’t it?’ he snarled.
It was much later when Mike was taken by the police back to the castle. Still the television crew were transmitting from the courtyard but now the commentator was Spanish, telling the local audience of the events of the night. He moved through the square unseen, and up the steps towards the main hall. At a window to the hall he stopped for a moment and looked in. Porter Lee and Hoffman, together with a group of English Press, were standing watching the television monitor. It was showing film of the ambulance’s arrival at the hospital. Mike watched for a moment, remembering another day when he had peeped through a window to watch television, and then went inside. In the corner of the room an English journalist was filing his story back to London for the morning paper. He hadn’t been given his promised interview but he had a marvellous story anyway. Over eighteen million people had seen the show on television in England, and many million more would see it in the next few days.
As Mike entered the hall Porter Lee noticed him and turned. He hardly dare ask the inevitable when he saw Mike’s face. ‘Jim … ?’ he paused for words, uncertain of how to phrase it. ‘Is he … ?’ he couldn’t go on. He didn’t want to say it.
Mike said it for him. ‘Dead?’ He rasped. ‘He’s been dead for years. We all are now.’
And with a hard stare at Porter Lee, he walked out of the hall and along the balcony towards Jim’s bedroom -his white sanctuary. Pushing the door open he found what he was looking for. Danielle was sitting on Jim’s bed, staring at her reflection in his mirror just as Jim had done so often before. And for a long moment their eyes met, before Danielle murmured a sound that sounded like Thank You.
And without waiting for anything else, Mike walked out of the room for ever, went down the stairs and, calling for Rover, climbed into his Land-Rover and drove away.
They were all dead now.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
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Copyright © Ray Connolly
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ISBN: 9781448205004
eISBN: 9781448204564
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