Shooting Sean

by Colin Bateman

  I checked back into Jury's. I even got the same room. I enquired if a wedding ring had shown up but there was nothing to report. I would have to start looking for a new one, though first I would have to decide if I wanted to remain married to someone who was willing to give my child away to a complete stranger, though of course he wasn't a complete stranger, he wasn't my child and she wasn't going to give him away.

  Sometimes there's too much goes on in my head.

  Concentrate.

  Concentrate on unpacking. We'd been rowing, but she'd still folded everything perfectly. I took out the shirts and the T-shirts and put them away. I changed from my Oxfords into a pair of black baseball boots, black jeans and a zip-up black suede bomber jacket. I looked pretty cool, which was accidental but fortuitous seeing as how I might have to attract a new wife.

  I drove back out to the set. It was the final week of shooting The Brigadier and I had barely scratched the surface of the research for my biography of Sean O'Toole. He had thus far been affable, open and chatty, but I had hardly made a note. By the time we had gotten past the chit-chat it was always time for him to go back to work. I already had in my mind a vague plan to climax the book with Sean's triumph (or humiliation) at the Cannes Film Festival; it would provide a suitably glamorous backdrop, and it would also nail Sam Cameron for several thousand more in expenses. I made a mental note to phone his secretary as soon as I got back from the set. She could organise a hotel room for me out there; in fact Sam could bloody well pay for Patricia and Little Stevie too. That's what we needed, a break, a holiday, just the three of us. There was no need to call Patricia with the good news just yet. It would be a pleasant surprise for her when she caved in. A reward. But it would be mean to dangle it before her like a carrot, or a free holiday.

  Before even contemplating Cannes, however, I had to find Sean the man, not Sean the star, and already I had the first indication that the two might be very different.

  The star stuff was easy. The facts of his movie career could be picked up over the Internet; there were a thousand and one newspaper and magazine profiles, there would be the industry newspapers that would give me the lowdown on his films' box-office performances, and of course there would be the reviews. If I could read enough of them I might even be able to avoid sitting through all of his movies. It was tempting.

  It was getting behind the PR sheen, however, that would make or break the book. Not that I was trying to do a Kitty Kelly or Goldman hatchet job. I wasn't prepared to print every salacious rumour I came across. I would need documented verification, or at least scout's honour, before I'd do that. His headmaster had already intimated that Sean wasn't as Britney as he appeared. A bounced cheque wasn't that important, but from someone who liked to be thought of as a nice guy, it was surprising, unusual and definitely worthy of further investigation.

  But how? Confront him and risk him withdrawing further cooperation? Bang on his caravan and shout: 'You cheated the kids out of thousands, you fucker!' Or leave it to the very end of my association with him when it no longer mattered? Would not raising the subject colour my opinion of him anyway when there was possibly a perfectly reasonable explanation?

  As I arrived at the gates to the warehouse where The Brigadier was filming it became immediately apparent that Sean had doubled security, at least physically. There were now four big bouncers on the gate. They demanded I climb out of my car and be searched. They were Dubliners. They rooted through my trousers with the suspicious scowls and unconcealed enthusiasm of halfwits who think everyone with a northern accent is a terrorist, whereas it's actually only about thirty per cent.

  This time they were filming indoors. They'd constructed a mock-up of a cell within an RUC station, and Sean O'Toole's version of Michael O'Ryan was combating some savage police brutality with a steely smile and a ready wit. There was a palpable air of tension. But it wasn't anything Sean was managing to create in front of the camera. It came from the crew. It was the eighth take of this particular scene. Sean wasn't happy with his own performance and he was taking it out on the technical staff. There was too much noise. Not enough light. When somebody dropped a cup during filming he got fired on the spot and only reinstated when everyone else threatened to walk out. This had happened before I arrived. Karen, the make-up girl, told me all about it. She had walked past and smiled and told me she used to read my column up north. She had short brown hair and attractive freckles and I thought she was examining me with a little too much appreciation until she started to suggest creams I could use to sort out my skin problem and I said, 'What fucking skin problem?'

  'Take it easy,' she said, 'it's more common than you'd think.'

  She produced a mirror from her bag of tricks and held it up for me to see. It was one of those super-powered efforts that they use to magnify hair follicles and DNA, so of course it looked like I'd a skin problem. She suggested a moisturiser, I suggested I might as well write homosexual on my head. She said times had changed, I said not that much. She said I was taking the piss and I said I might be. She said Sean was a sweetheart to work with and I asked if she'd managed to cash her pay cheque yet. She looked at me oddly and I looked at her oddly back, though her back wasn't oddly at all.

  Then Sean, way behind us, said: 'Cut!' and followed it with, 'That's the one, check the gate!'

  But there followed an uneasy silence during which Sean's relieved smile faded. The cameraman whispered something in Sean's ear, and Sean checked out the monitor, touched a finger to his nose, then nodded. Evidently all was not well. Then the focus puller announced there was a hair on the lens as well. Sean issued an angry 'Fuck!' The assistant director bellowed: 'Right, let's get set up again. Karen! Sean needs sorted!'

  Sean retreated towards his caravan. Karen hurried across after him. I tagged along. As I passed amongst the crew I detected angry murmurs. I couldn't quite pick up what they were saying, but it sounded like murmur-murmur-murmur-murmur. Karen skipped up the steps into the caravan and I followed most of the way. I put my head around the door and said: 'Okay if I come in?'

  Sean looked angrily across. Then he sighed and nodded me in. Karen had lifted his chin up and was holding a tissue to his nose. There was blood seeping into it. 'I know what they're fucking thinking,' Sean growled. 'I know what the fuck they're slabbering about.'

  'What?' I said, innocently. Karen looked across and rolled her eyes.

  I had an inkling. I'd never practised myself, but I'd seen Scarface.

  'Can't get a fucking nosebleed without them thinking I'm a fucking coke addict!' Sean shouted. 'Jesus Christ, I could have a fucking brain tumour and they'd still be thinking I was doing coke! Fucking hell. They know how hard I'm working! They know somebody's trying to kill me! And all they can do is bitch about every fucking thing . . .'

  Karen pulled the tissue away. I think that's it, Sean.' She began to re-apply his make-up. 'I didn't hear them say anything, Sean,' she said softly.

  'You think I'm paranoid?' Sean snapped. He pushed her hand away. 'That's just another way of saying I'm a coke addict. Jesus Christ.'

  She pulled his chin forcefully back towards her. He seemed a little surprised. 'Just sit where you are, Sean. You're worse than a little boy sometimes.'

  'I'm working my fucking guts out and all they can do . . .'

  'Shhhhh,' Karen said.

  He looked at me and he sighed, a common enough occurrence. 'Fuck,' he said, 'I'm screaming around here like Elton John, and Johnny Boswell is here to record it.'

  I shrugged. 'You're under a lot of pressure,' I said.

  'Dead right I am.'

  Karen pulled his chin to one side. He resisted a little this time. It was, evidently, the side of his face he was not happiest with, and perhaps he had a point. With the light coming through the small caravan window, it did not cut quite as perfect a profile as the world was familiar with. Any other man would have been deliriously happy with such 'defects', but Sean was A Movie Star, which required nothing less than perfection, unless
you were Kathy Bates.

  Karen, evidently aware of his feelings, finished re-applying the make-up quickly. As she let go of his chin it snapped back into his more usual profile like it was on a tight spring.

  When he spoke again, Sean's tone had lightened a little. 'What was it Forrest Gump used to say: life is like a box of chocolates, you never know which one you're going to get?'

  'Something like that,' I said.

  'Well, I always know, it's always the fucking coffee cream. Nobody ever likes the coffee creams.' He smiled, at last. 'You know, I know people who stick it up their arse.'

  Karen gave him an odd look. 'Stick what up their arse? Coffee creams?'

  'No,' Sean laughed, 'cocaine. Their noses can't take it any more, they have to find some other way. Just thought you'd like to know.'

  'You've never indulged yourself?' I asked. 'I mean cocaine, not up the arse.'

  'Of course I've indulged.' Karen offered him the same nuclear-powered mirror and he began to examine his face intently. 'I've had my wild days, but I've settled down now. Love of a good woman, all that.'

  'It's about six weeks since you met her, Sean,' Karen said.

  'Love of several good women, then.' He slipped his hand around her waist. She removed it. 'Chance would be a fine thing,' he said. He smiled round at me. 'Write this: Sean said that once he realised he wouldn't be able to wear his trademark sunglasses without his nose caving in, he decided to quit taking cocaine. Now he's an occasional social user, but much prefers a nice cup of tea and a Paris bun. Write that.'

  I said, 'Do you have any money problems, Sean?'

  He hesitated for a moment. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, just enough to send off a little flurry of powder. Karen tutted. 'You mean on this film?' Sean asked.

  'No, I mean generally.'

  We looked at each other for several moments. Karen detected a chill and said, 'Do you want me to leave?'

  Sean shook his head. He looked into the mirror. His voice went deep. 'Mirror, mirror, not on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?' He closed his lips, then let out a passably good ventriloquist's 'You are!' before turning his gaze upon me. 'Now who have you been talking to?' he asked.

  'Headmaster. Your old school.'

  Sean nodded slowly. 'I see.' He took a deep breath. Then he clapped his hands together and let out a loud whoop. 'Class!' he shouted. 'Didn't I show those bastards!'

  18

  He made me wait, of course. Five minutes. He cruised out of his caravan and performed the scene to absolute perfection and with a warmth and style he had not previously mustered. He even earned a round of applause from a relieved crew, and without a hint of sarcasm about it. It's amazing what hearing some good news can do for a guy, and getting one over on his old school seemed to do the trick.

  Sean checked the tape, then had a brief discussion with his team about the next scene, which, although it was set just a few yards away in another part of the mocked-up police station, would still require the best part of an hour to get the cameras and the lights shifted and set up.

  I took a Diet Coke from the small fridge. I have a thing for exploring fridges. Knoweth the fridge, knoweth the man, as Oscar once said. There wasn't much else in there. A bottle of vodka. Half a dozen oranges. And three syringes.

  I closed the fridge quickly. Footsteps. When I turned, Alice was in the doorway. I generally do look suspicious, so her quizzical expression was to be expected. 'Should you be in here by yourself?' she asked.

  'Yes,' I said, 'he's on his way.'

  She looked at the fridge.

  'I was just getting a drink,' I said, holding the can up for evidence. I opened the fridge door again. 'Can I get you one?'

  'No.'

  'What about an orange?'

  'No.'

  'What about a syringe, so we can shoot some heroin together?'

  She took a deep breath. 'I don't know why the hell he ever agreed to this book,' she said.

  I closed the fridge door. I crossed to the little lunch table and slipped in behind it. I opened my can and took a long drink. 'Just how well do you really know him, Alice?' I asked.

  'Better than you ever will.'

  'Did you know about the . . . well, y'know?'

  Alice nodded. She glanced behind her. Sean was approaching. As he came up the steps he looked at her and said: 'What's wrong?'

  Her voice faltered endearingly, to me anyway. 'Sweetie, it's Dan. He's . . . well, he found your syringes.'

  'Christ.'

  'I know,' Alice said.

  'I was just . . .' I began. 'I didn't . . .'

  'Fuck,' said Sean, 'I need a shot right now. Will I get you one too, love?'

  Alice nodded. She pulled the caravan door closed and started to roll up her sleeve. Sean crossed to the fridge.

  'Will you join us, Dan?' Alice asked.

  'No,' I said. 'I don't . . .'

  'Och, Danny,' Sean said, 'you should learn to live a little. Y'know, one blink of the eye, your life's over, you should enjoy it while you can.'

  'I . . . no. No thanks.'

  Sean was holding the bottle of vodka. He removed the top, then lifted a syringe from the fridge and dipped it in. Disinfecting it. Good. At least he was a health-conscious junkie. He began to draw the vodka up into the syringe. When he had filled it he set the bottle down on the worktop above the fridge then leant back into it and removed an orange. Then he plunged the needle into the fruit and squeezed the plunger. When the last drop had been injected into the fruit he removed the needle, then tossed the orange across to Alice. She caught it in one hand, then started to peel it. Sean reached for the vodka bottle again.

  'Oh,' I said.

  'The problem with journalists,' Alice said, 'is that they invariably jump to the wrong conclusions.'

  'I didn't . . .'

  'You did.'

  Sean finished squeezing again, then tossed the second orange across to me. I fumbled it and it rolled across the table and off. I reached under to retrieve it but misjudged the available space and cracked my head. The impact knocked the can over and a bubbling lake of Diet Coke sopped over the edge and into my lap.

  I had an orange vodka in my hand, and damp trousers. I looked at the two of them, quietly giggling into their fruit, and said: 'Sorry.'

  Alice got some kitchen roll and mopped up the mess.

  'We both enjoy a wee tot of vodka once in a while,' Sean said, 'but it's not good to drink in front of the crew, or reporters, for that matter. It's a little innocent subterfuge.'

  He crossed to Alice. They clinked oranges. I cleared my throat and tried to forget about my trousers. 'You were going to tell me about your old school,' I said.

  Alice kissed Sean on the cheek. 'I just came to tell you that George Bijoudeux is coming on Friday. He wants to see what you have.'

  'Fuck,' said Sean. He gave Alice a little hug.

  'It'll be fine,' she said. She glanced across, gave me the tiniest smile, then exited.

  'Fuck,' said Sean again.

  'Who's . . .?'

  'He is the Cannes Film Festival. He'll want to see as much of The Brigadier as I can cut together. I'm a star, but I'm not a star director. He has to satisfy himself I haven't made a complete crock of shite before he accepts it for the competition. Though of course he's French and would probably say it in a much nicer way.'

  'Is there a problem with that? Is it a crock of shite?'

  'Not for me to say really. It just means working even harder than I have been. From little sleep to no sleep. Shit. Still, it's better than being beaten with a big stick, which is what happened at my old school.'

  He moved into the seat opposite me.

  'Really?' I said.

  'Really.' He took another suck on his orange. 'Y'see, Dan, it might seem petty to you, but sometimes it's just not enough to drive past the old place in a big car and say, look how well I did despite what you did to me. You have to get out there and beat them with a big stick. So I did.'

  'Were they rea
lly that bad to you?'

  'Not just me. Others. Catholic education, old style. Beat it in to them, or knock it out of them. Turn the other cheek, boy, 'cause we've already thrashed the other one.'

  'It was years ago, though.'

  'The pain stays with you. The sensation of having a grown man's hand down your shorts, that stays with you too.'

  'You mean Corrigan . . . .'

  'He was one of them. Of course he wasn't headmaster at the time, and he wasn't the worst, but they were all at it. Even the priests. Dan, always be suspicious of a man who volunteers for celibacy.'

  'I was conscripted,' I said.

  He shook his head slowly. 'I'm not a brave man meself, Dan. I went there full of great intentions to expose them – the way they'd exposed me . . .' He laughed softly. 'But when it came to it I couldn't do it. I was going to stand on that stage and accept all the plaudits, then I was going to tell everyone what grasping little perverts they were. I chickened out. There were little boys in that audience and I knew just to look at them that they were still going through it. It wouldn't help them. The sad thing was their parents were there with them, parents who were with me when I was at school so they must have known what was going on, yet thirty years on they've sent their own kids back to the same fucking place with the same fucking teachers. And that makes me sick. But that isn't why I stayed quiet either.' He drummed his fingers on the table. When he looked at me there was the merest hint of a tear in one eye. His voice sounded like a damp winter's morning. 'I stayed quiet because when I looked at Corrigan and the rest of them – do you know what I felt? Scared. Scared. Still scared of fucking Corrigan and the fact that he might tell my parents.'

  'I thought your parents were . . .'

  'My parents are dead. And that shows you how scared I felt on that stage.'

  'So . . .'