Pressure

by Betsy Reavley

  It was during that time I met Bob Watkins, the infamous Hollywood producer. He told me he was looking for a young fresh-faced producer to join his company, Watfilms. I jumped at the chance and soon left the UK, headed for LA and stardom. It broke my mother’s heart, but I’d given her so many years and now it was time for me to focus on myself. I promised her she would never want for anything and arranged for money to be sent to her every month.

  Six months after I left England she died. I didn’t attend her funeral. I was busy shooting and couldn’t take the time off. She wouldn’t have minded anyway, she was dead.

  In LA I found the acceptance I’d craved but had never received in London. It didn’t matter that I was Jewish, or young, in America, and I quickly embraced their way of life.

  The champagne, cocaine and sex flowed over there like water and I enjoyed each with relish.

  You will never know how many beautiful women I got to meet on a daily basis. It was like an alien world where only the gorgeous existed and the ugly did not. I was like a pig in muck. Models, actresses, pop stars all threw themselves at me, hoping for parts in my next film and any woman who scorned my advances soon found themselves unable to find work. It was that easy – like shooting fish in a barrel.

  By eighty-nine Watfilms was the most powerful independent studio in the States. We were gods of the industry, only taking on the biggest films and working with the very best.

  I dined in the top restaurants, shopped in designer stores and lived a life of luxury. I’d made it.

  In between producing blockbusters I indulged my love of art-house films and cut my teeth as a director. They were the best days of my life.

  In ninety-one I married Lauren Newham, a pretty young thing from Idaho who had the best pair of tits I’d ever seen and who acted in a steamy thriller I produced. We had fun for a while but she didn’t appreciate my extracurricular activates and the marriage ended in divorce eighteen months later. I swore after that I’d never marry again. Neither cohabiting nor monogamy suited me. My love lies with making films and I didn’t have room for a woman in my life full time. They were handy accessories that came in useful now and again. The rest of the time they were a fucking nuisance.

  After years spent in Hollywood I was given the opportunity to direct a big budget television series, set in the UK, so I returned to England and accepted the work.

  The drama series, based on a book, centred on a world where witches, kings, queens and dragons resided. It focused on the wars between the various factions and was fantasy fiction at its very best. Although some of the larger production houses passed up on it, I knew it would do well. It was a violent look into another world. It had everything – sex, war and triumph over evil. It was destined to be a winner and, in reality, I fancied a change from motion pictures. A series would give me a new challenge and another opportunity to show that I could turn my hand to anything I fancied.

  After many meetings and long months of persuasion, I persuaded Warner Brothers to get behind the project and invest heavily. Some thought it was a gamble but I knew better. Frank Holden didn’t do flops.

  The only term that Warners insisted on was having a young up-and-coming director on board. I was to be the producer and that was fine with me. Finally, after months of planning, we began filming in the Highlands. The weather was miserable but the setting was perfect for the opening scene.

  I bought an apartment in central London and used it as my base; although, during shooting I spent many nights in hotels around the country.

  During the filming of the first episode we had only one problem – the writer. Jackson Miles, who’d written the book, became very insistent that he should be involved in the making of the programme. Not wanting to upset the author, Warners agreed to allow him to become involved in the scriptwriting. It was a huge mistake. The geeky little author, who most likely grew up playing World of Warcraft and masturbating furiously, didn’t have a clue about screenwriting and managed to upset every writer who worked on the show.

  In the end I took the little worm aside and gave him a piece of advice. ‘Look, Jackson,’ I said putting my arm round his weedy shoulder, ‘leave this to the big boys. Fuck off back to your pit and write more books.’

  I don’t think anyone had ever spoken to him like that. That is the big problem with this industry, everyone is so set on playing it nice and sucking up. I saw things differently. He was interfering with my work and my show and I wasn’t going to stand for it.

  The next day Jackson emailed Warners and said that he no longer wished to be involved. Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief and work started again without any further interruptions.

  In ten weeks we’d managed to shoot the entire first series and when it aired, three months later, the fans went nuts for it and rave reviews poured in. I was hailed a genius, naturally, but it was unfortunate having to share my crown with the director, a kid out of film school who didn’t know his arse from his elbow. That irritated me and I decided that he was a fly which needed swatting. I made it my business to do just that.

  During the filming of the second series I made sure that I spent as much time with Ralph, the director, as possible. I befriended the little creep and started inviting him to join me for drinks in the evenings. The fresh-faced little fucker, who bordered on being arrogant, was in awe that a man of my standing wanted to take him under my wing. It was so easy – like taking candy from a repulsive little baby.

  One evening, after a few expensive measures of brandy from my own collection, I offered him some cocaine. It was a gamble. I didn’t know if he was one of those clean-living little shits from Shoreditch or whether he would indulge, but I thought it worth the risk.

  As soon as I’d cut the lines on the coffee table the pig had his nose right in there hoovering it all up. I produced more and more of the stuff, making sure I did very little, and watched as he filled up on the drug.

  A lot of people do cocaine. It’s no big deal, especially in Hollywood, but most people don’t get hold of good stuff. The powder they buy is cut to shit and mixed with rat poison, or speed if they are lucky. But I was rich and had contacts that could get hold of the purest stuff, and the good stuff, let me tell you, is in a different league to the pub grub that most of the great unwashed shove up their nostrils.

  Ralph was high after a few lines but I kept racking it up until he was on another planet.

  Then at six in the morning, when he looked like a ghost with huge dilated pupils, I kicked him out of my hotel room and reminded him we needed to be on set in fifteen minutes. The look on his face was priceless.

  Needless to say, during filming that day he was a mess and everyone on set could see it.

  That evening I dropped Warners an email telling them that I was concerned Ralph had a drug habit. It was as easy as that. It only took one evening for me to put his career in jeopardy.

  The next day filming was put on hold and Ralph was called into a meeting with Warners. If I could have rubbed my hands together like a panto villain I would have done.

  Expecting to hear that Ralph had been sacked from the show, I was disappointed when I heard nothing. Still, filming was on hold and before long the crew and cast began to get worried about the lack of communication from the studio. I myself began to think that the silence from HQ wasn’t looking good.

  Two days later I received an email from the head of Warners asking me to attend a meeting in London. This was it. I knew they’d sacked Ralph and were going to ask me to step in as director.

  I went into the meeting full of beans but left it distraught. It seemed the little arsehole had told them I had been the one to ply him with the drugs and Warners, not wanting to act on hearsay, had done some digging and discovered from other ‘unnamed sources’ that I did indeed often take the drug. During the meeting they told me that I was no longer going to be producer on the show and that if I went quietly they would keep my indiscretion away from the tabloids. What choice did I have? I left the show a
nd returned to my London apartment under a cloud.

  Despite assurances from Warners that my indiscretion wouldn’t be made public, the work started to dry up and I felt I was being shunned by the industry. I still had friends, of course, but I knew that something had changed. You know when you’re being cut out. I’d been used to calling up buddies and planning to make a movie and suddenly that had changed. All thanks to that little maggot Ralph. What sort of name was Ralph for a pathetic scrawny white kid from Bristol?

  After a few months of feeling sorry for myself because things were quiet, I decided to pull myself out of the slump.

  Something I’ve always done to pass the time is read; and during those months I read a lot. One of the books was a graphic novel called Below the Surface. A small indie press had seen the potential in the writer and the merit in the story and had published it. I’d come across it by chance, flicking through recommendations on Amazon. The first thing that grabbed me was the cover – a very graphic image of blood and water mixing together on a plain white background. I loved the blue and red. It reminded me of a horror film called Event Horizon, in which the director had colour graded the film so that the reds and blues in each scene stood out. It worked beautifully and made for a very visual viewing experience. Not exactly Oscar-winning stuff but memorable nonetheless, and a classic, in my opinion, from the point of view of the use of colour on screen. Presumably it was that cerebral link that drew me to Below the Surface.

  It wasn’t Shakespeare by any stretch of the imagination but, much like the cover, it painted pictures in my mind while I was reading. There was no doubt that this book needed to be turned into a film and there was no doubt that I was going to be the man to do it. Sure, it was going to be a challenge, not just because my popularity was at an all-time low, but also because much of the action took place on a submarine.

  Finding the funding, crew and actors would be easy. Where I knew I’d struggle would be getting my hands on a sub. Then I remembered I’d worked with a man who’d been involved in marine wildlife documentaries a few years back. There was no guarantee that he’d be able to help but it was a starting point at least, and I set about finding the contact information for a man whose name escaped me. I’d always relished a challenge and this was going to be just that. Besides, it was the perfect distraction from thinking about how to get my own back on that little turd Ralph. Suddenly revenge was the last thing on my mind and I felt better than I had done in months. Now, at last, I had bigger fish to fry again.

  20

  The Pica Explorer

  Day three. Hour 09:00.

  When Sam reappears we all gaze at him with distrust.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Susie inquires.

  ‘It was an accident.’ Sam’s face is gaunt.

  ‘So you say,’ Frank snorts.

  ‘Okay, this is what we are going to do.’ Fiona stands up, calmly tucking her hair behind her ears. ‘We need to try to get the sub up to the surface.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Frank puts in.

  ‘We need power. We have approximately four days of air left at best.’

  The room falls quiet and Frank’s mouth forms a straight, tight-lipped line.

  ‘The emergency lights won’t last four days, and soon the lights will go out. We need to act now before we are plunged into total darkness.’

  I nod, feeling like there might be an ounce of hope for the first time since this nightmare began.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Luke steps forward.

  ‘We need to use the working batteries on board to get the motor and control systems working again. Let’s split into groups.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We still don’t know what’s going on.’ Susie’s face is pale and wary.

  ‘It will save time.’ Fiona dismisses her concerns, doing her utmost to remain stoic. ‘I can work on the wiring and maybe, just maybe, we stand a chance of getting out of here.’

  Frank claps his hands. ‘That’s decided then. But I have to say, doll, it’s a shame you didn’t say this earlier.’

  ‘It’s taken me this long to work out why we sank. These vessels are complicated bits of machinery. It appears there was a leak, which caused a short circuit that meant we lost power.’

  ‘Do you know where the leak is?’ Anya asks, fixing Fiona with a cold stare.

  ‘I’ve got a good idea. Anya, you know this sub well. You take the first group and go and collect as many batteries as you can. Take them from any equipment that isn’t vital and bring them back here. I will go to the second level and do the same. Frank, you come with Luke, Zara and me. Susie, Sam, you go with Anya. We meet back here’—she checks her wristwatch—‘in forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Maybe the fucker killing everyone did something to the sub,’ Frank interrupts, his eyes burning into Sam’s face.

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Fiona spins to face him.

  ‘Why not? Surely it’s crossed your mind too.’ Frank glares at us all.

  ‘Okay.’ I refuse to entertain him and look over at Luke, feeling unhappy that he is part of the group I have been assigned to. I hardly know Fiona, who I have found to be a cold fish, and as for Frank, well, enough said. I wish I could go with Susie.

  ‘Follow me.’ Fiona, who has assumed the position of captain, leaves the living area and the three of us trail after her.

  I was never good at physics at school and hope that neither she nor the others expect me to be able to contribute to this mission. Still, I’m glad not to be left alone when there is still a killer on board.

  As we make our way through the maze of passages I wonder if one of my three companions could be responsible for the murders. Trying to make sense of the bizarre three days we’ve spent trapped on the ocean floor, I can’t help but be suspicious of Frank. He’s the only one with a real temper. He’s the only one who is angry and strong enough to kill another man in cold blood. But the question that swirls around my head is why. Why would Frank want to kill Ray or Patrick? Is it a coincidence that two men have been murdered? Then I think about what happened to Dominique. I was there. I saw Sam try to stop her endangering all of our lives. It was an accident. Wasn’t it?

  Above us the lights flicker.

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Fiona calls, picking up the pace.

  ‘You really think you can pull this off?’ Frank sounds sceptical.

  ‘It’s worth a try.’

  As we come to another entrance my foot catches on a metal step and I tumble forward, landing flat on my face and catching my head on a sharp corner as I fall.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Luke, who was only a few steps ahead, comes to my aid. ‘You’re bleeding.’ He puts his hand up to my temple and presses against the gaping wound. ‘Fiona, stop!’ he calls out and his words echo around the metal all around us. ‘Zara’s hit her head.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Sitting on the cold hard floor I push his hand away, and see the shimmer of my blood on his hand, reflecting purple in the blue light.

  ‘You need a bandage on that.’ Fiona appears, standing over me. ‘There is a first aid kit in the periscope room. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  ‘Stupid,’ Frank mutters to himself shaking his head.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Fiona whips around to look at him.

  ‘Stupid girl.’ Frank points down at me.

  ‘It was a mistake.’ Luke jumps to my defence and I’m grateful to him for doing so. I feel foolish enough as it is without Frank pointing it out.

  ‘It’s dark down here. I didn’t know there was a step.’ I am holding my sleeve against the side of my head, feeling the warm blood seeping into my jumper. The lights flicker again.

  ‘We don’t have time for this. We need to get back up to the surface,’ Frank barks, grabbing hold of Fiona by the wrist.

  ‘Let go of me now.’ Fiona is not intimidated by Frank, but I think she should be.

  ‘It’s okay. You two go ahead. I’ll make my way to the periscope room and f
ind the first aid kit. Frank is right.’ It pains me to have to admit it.

  ‘I’ll stay with her.’ Luke puts his hand on my shoulder as Frank lets go of Fiona and straightens his posture, while I wonder how safe I will be with Luke.

  ‘Fine.’ Fiona doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of being alone with Frank but doesn’t have much choice. ‘The kit is in a green plastic box on the wall near the ladder. There should be disinfectant and bandages in there. Go back to the living quarters when you’ve got cleaned up.’

  Half an hour later we are back in the living area and my head is throbbing. The side of my face is beginning to swell and my left eye is closing.

  ‘What happened?’ Susie rushes over as they return from their search.

  ‘I tripped and fell.’ My cheeks flush red.

  ‘It looks nasty,’ Anya comments with no emotion. She is so clinical in her delivery.

  ‘I think you should go for a lie down.’ Susie rubs my back delicately with her bony hand.

  ‘No. I want to stay here,’ I disagree, despite feeling a wave of fatigue and light-headedness flood over me.

  ‘Any luck?’ Luke asks, holding a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

  ‘Yes. We found batteries.’ Anya plonks a bag down on the table with a thud. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘We got separated,’ Luke explains. ‘I had to take Zara to find a first aid kit. Fiona and Frank went looking for more batteries.’

  ‘They are late,’ Anya remarks, checking her wristwatch. ‘She said forty-five minutes.’ This appears to annoy Anya rather than concern her.

  ‘I hope everything is alright.’ Susie looks worried. ‘Maybe they are in trouble.’

  ‘Should we go and look for them?’ Sam suggests.

  ‘You can,’ Anya snorts, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Fiona can take care of herself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy her chances if she came up against Frank.’ Sam shrugs, sits down and starts picking the skin around his fingernails.