Best Served Cold

by Sally Spencer

  ‘You can’t do it,’ Talbot whined.

  ‘I’m the director and I’m also one of the principal backers – which means I can pretty well do what the bloody hell I like,’ Cotton said. ‘You’ll probably get your chance to play Hieronimo sometime later in the week – but not if you continue to piss me off like this.’

  He turned on his heel, and walked rapidly out of the dressing room.

  ‘If you remember, I predicted that exactly this would happen,’ said Bradley Quirk, who was sitting at the next make-up table. ‘But even I didn’t picture it quite like this. Our leader seemed rather rattled, don’t you think. I would say he’s very scared about going on tonight – yet, for some unfathomable reason, he feels compelled to.’

  ‘He can’t do this,’ Talbot said.

  ‘My assessment of the situation would be that not only can he, but he has,’ Quirk replied.

  ‘We shouldn’t let him get away with bullying the company like this,’ Talbot said. ‘He depends on us as much as we depend on him. It’s not too late to send a deputation to him now, and if he knows how the rest of us feel, he’ll have to give way.’

  ‘But how do the rest of us feel?’ Quirk mused. ‘Speaking for myself, whilst I strongly subscribe to the belief that no man is an island, ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee, etc, etc, the simple truth is that I’ve still got my part, and I’d rather like to hold on to it.’

  ‘You’re an arsehole,’ Talbot snarled.

  ‘Granted,’ Quirk agreed, ‘but at least I’m an arsehole who still has a role to play.’

  Talbot stood up, and stormed out of the dressing room.

  But where do I go from here? he asked himself, once he was standing in the corridor.

  He could always go back to the lodgings or slink into the nearest pub, but what if, at the last moment, Cotton sprained his ankle, and he was not there to replace him?

  Cotton wouldn’t sprain his ankle, he told himself angrily. Bastards like him always led a charmed life.

  He reached the end of the corridor, and mounted the steps.

  Once he was on the stage, he began pacing up and down.

  But it was not random pacing, he suddenly realized, because though he wasn’t consciously thinking about it, there was a part of his brain which was directing his legs to hit his marks.

  Except that, as things had turned out, they weren’t his marks any longer, he thought bitterly.

  The last twenty years of his life flashed rapidly through his mind like a speeded-up film.

  He saw the damp, dreary repertory theatres all over the country in which he’d worked.

  He experienced anew the humiliation of having to dress up as a dancing banana, not to make an artistic statement, but to sell yogurt.

  And worst of all, he recalled working as a barman or a cleaner, and having people laugh at him when he told them that this was only temporary, and that he was actually an actor.

  Hieronimo had been his chance to finally break through, and Mark Cotton had stolen it from him at the last moment.

  His soul – his very being – screamed out for revenge, and he swore he would have it.

  The taxi had made slow progress along the one traffic lane which the police had managed to keep open, but at least it hadn’t killed any of the Cotton Buds who, in their near-ecstasy, drifted into the lane and seemed totally unaware of both the approaching vehicle and their own mortality.

  Now, finally, it pulled up outside the theatre, and two women and the girl alighted.

  They made an incongruous trio. One of the women was blonde, in her early forties and heavily pregnant. The other was much younger, slim, and wore her dark hair so short that it was almost a fine piece of velvet balancing on her head. The girl had dark Iberian eyes. She was slim, too, but it was clear that it was only a teenage skinniness and that in two or three more years she would be turning men’s heads when she walked down the street.

  Meadows looked at the queue of ticket holders, stretching up the road almost to the police barrier.

  ‘Can’t have you standing out here in your condition, boss,’ she said, and before Monika Paniatowski had a chance to reply, she was marching off towards the box office.

  Tickets for The Spanish Tragedy had become like gold dust since it had leaked out that Mark Cotton would be playing the lead, but Meadows had told Paniatowski she could get her hands on some, and Paniatowski had believed her, because everything Meadows had ever promised – however impossible that promise might have seemed – had always been delivered.

  It had seemed only polite, when Meadows had made the offer, to ask her to accompany them, but Paniatowski had been slightly surprised when the other woman had agreed.

  ‘I like going to the theatre, but it’s not the same on your own,’ Meadows had explained.

  And it occurred to Paniatowski, for the first time, that though Meadows always seemed so self-reliant, and had a very active – if rather bizarre – sex life, she was probably lonely.

  Meadows returned.

  ‘We can go in now,’ she said.

  ‘How did you manage that?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I told them that you were pregnant.’

  ‘And you didn’t mention the fact that I was a chief inspector?’ Paniatowski asked accusingly.

  ‘Of course not,’ Meadows replied. ‘That would have been very wrong.’ She grinned. ‘But I did say that I’m a detective sergeant, and that while I was outside, queuing, I’d take the opportunity to see if the fire doors came up to the standards laid down in the new regulations.’

  ‘There haven’t been any new regulations,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Haven’t there?’ Meadows asked, guiding her boss towards the door. ‘Dear me, what an airhead I am.’

  Bill Sikes had decided to film the first night of the play, and had positioned one of his cameras in the left wing, and the other in the right.

  It wouldn’t produce perfect results.

  He knew that.

  For a start, the lighting had been set for the play, rather than for the cameras. And then there was the fact that, though the cameras were on tracks, they would have to remain static that night, because, once again, the documentary must play second fiddle to the drama.

  None of that mattered, he thought as he headed for the stage to carry out a last-minute check on the cameras, because he was not filming the play itself, but what went into making the play, and if some of the shots were grainy and slightly out of focus, then that would only add to the authenticity of his finished product.

  And it would be authentic, Sikes thought, chuckling to himself. Mark Cotton – who was not only arrogant but also stupid – had tried to manipulate the documentary with his staged pieces, and it had all gone disastrously wrong for him. The conversation with Sarah Audley had been a true television classic, and the way he had handled the Friday morning rehearsal had clearly demonstrated what a nasty little shit he really was.

  He climbed the steps to the stage and saw that one of his camera-men seemed to be almost wrestling with his camera.

  ‘Have you got a problem there, George?’ he asked.

  The cameraman jumped like a scalded cat.

  ‘No, I … err … was just finding out how easy it would be to film the audience,’ he spluttered.

  Sikes crouched down beside the camera.

  ‘Filming the audience in the stalls would be a doddle,’ he said. ‘What you seem to be trying to do is find a way to film one of the boxes. Now why would you want to do that?’

  The cameraman said nothing.

  ‘A few years ago, I shot a documentary about the posh people who live in the Cotswolds, and one of the local mini-celebrities was so keen to be in it that he bribed one of my cameramen – let’s call him Dirty Dick – to take lots of shots of him,’ Sikes said. ‘There wouldn’t happen to be a local mini-celebrity who’s planning to sit in that box tonight, would there, George?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ the cameraman said, unconvincin
gly.

  ‘Good,’ Sikes said. He looked pointedly up at the box. ‘I’d have liked to get that Dirty Dick fired, you know, but your union would never have stood for that.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t have,’ George agreed, with a slight smile he couldn’t quite hide.

  ‘So what I did do was to have a quiet word with all my mates in the business – and you’d be surprised just how many of the other directors are my mates. I suggested to them they should think twice before they used Dick again themselves, and they agreed they would.’ Sikes paused. ‘You get the point, do you, George?’

  ‘Yes,’ the cameraman agreed. ‘I get the point.’

  Getting into the theatre was easy for Paniatowski, Meadows and Louisa. They simply handed over one half of their tickets to the girl on the door, and stepped into the foyer. It was once they were inside that they found their route blocked by two hard men in suits.

  ‘Are you Buds?’ one of the hard men asked. ‘If you are, I have a personal message for you from Mark Cotton himself. Mr Cotton doesn’t think you’ll enjoy seeing him in this play. He’d like to give you your ticket money back, and if you leave your names and addresses, he’ll see to it that you get a studio pass for the next series of DCI Prince.’

  It sounded like a rehearsed speech, and it probably was.

  ‘Why doesn’t Markie-Parkie want us in there?’ Meadows asked, with that slightly-mischievous, slightly-dangerous tone in her voice that Paniatowski had learned to recognize. ‘Is he afraid we’ll go completely ape shit when he appears on stage?

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘But what if we are Buds, and we don’t want his bribe? What if we really want to see the play?’

  ‘If you’re Buds, you’re not going in,’ the heavy said firmly.

  Meadows smiled. ‘You actually think that you could stop us, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘I know I could stop you,’ the bouncer said, prodding her shoulder lightly with his index finger.

  Meadows had had her fun, but now it was time to step in before the bouncer got hurt, Paniatowski decided.

  ‘We’re not Buds,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the bouncer asked suspiciously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I might have been a Bud, if I hadn’t been so terrified of my mother,’ Louisa said sweetly.

  EIGHT

  Off-stage, he is Mark Cotton, as adored by his fans as he is despised by many of his fellow actors, but he is on stage now, and the body which Mark Cotton once owned is possessed by Hieronimo, the noble Marshal of Spain. He is grieving over his son Horatio’s death, and the knowledge that he cannot touch that son’s murderers – Prince Balthazar of Portugal and Lorenzo, the son of the Duke of Castile – is almost destroying him.

  With what excuses can you shield yourself,

  Thus to neglect the loss and life of him

  Whom both my letters and your own belief

  Assure you to be cruelly slaughtered?

  Hieronimo! For Shame, Hieronimo.

  The speaker looks like Sarah Audley, but at this moment she is Bel-Imperia, sister of Lorenzo and very reluctant bride-to-be of Balthazar. And in words that prick him like heated needles, she is both reaffirming her own love for the dead Horatio and questioning the love his father holds for him.

  He has a plan by which they may both get their revenge, Hieronimo tells her. He will propose putting on a play to entertain the wedding guests, and will persuade the two murderers to act in it. And it is in the course of this play that the mourning lover and father will wreak their revenge.

  ‘You see what I mean about him, Mum?’ Louisa asked in a whisper. ‘He is so sexy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Shush!’ Paniatowski said. ‘Remember where you are.’

  But she did see what her daughter meant. Even with all that make-up on – even playing old – Mark Cotton was undoubtedly sexy.

  Undeterred, Louisa turned to Meadows.

  ‘What do you think of him, Kate?’ she asked.

  ‘In my opinion, going on a date with him would be like flogging a dead horse,’ Meadows told her.

  ‘What do you mean, flogging a dead—’

  ‘Louisa!’ Paniatowski hissed, jabbing her daughter with her finger.

  Louisa turned to face the stage. Her first inclination was to sulk, but then she conceded that, in all fairness, her mother was right, and that they should appreciate the performance rather than lusting after one of the actors. Still, she couldn’t help wishing that she could magically become twenty years older – or that, by the same process, Mark Cotton could become twenty years younger.

  The wedding party has assembled to watch the play, and Hieronimo hands them the script to make it easier for them to follow the proceedings. They leaf through it, not realizing that what they are reading is not an improbable fiction, but the clearly set out plan for the murders they are about to witness.

  In the play-within-a-play, Pasha stabs Erasto, but in the play that is the play, Hieronimo sticks his knife hard into Lorenzo’s soft flesh. And scarcely has he had time to die before Bel-Imperia kills Balthazar, and then immediately turns her dagger on herself.

  Hieronimo has had his revenge, and considers his own life at an end.

  And, princes, now behold Hieronimo

  Author and actor in this tragedy,

  Bearing his latest fortune in his fist.

  A spotlight shines briefly on the balcony above, revealing a noose hanging there.

  And will as resolutely conclude his part

  As any of the actors gone before.

  And, gentles, thus I end my play!

  Urge no more words, I have no more to say.

  It is Hieronimo who speaks these words, but it is Mark Cotton, the actor – conscious of how little time he has to take up his position on the balcony – who turns and runs off stage.

  And as he runs, a conversation – a time-echo from twenty years earlier – is playing in his head.

  ‘Geoff let us down. We’re a bloody company – and now we’re all out of work. Who else is to blame?’

  ‘As Joan said, times are hard …’

  ‘Then why haven’t other companies gone under as well?’

  ‘Perhaps because their leads weren’t two beats too late on the hanging scene.’

  Well, he’d had to wait twenty years for his revenge, but, in the end, he had got it, and it had given him boundless pleasure to make Jerry Talbot keep on rehearsing the scene until he was almost dead on his feet.

  But that does mean that he cannot afford to be late himself – because if he is, Talbot will spread the story far and wide, and he will become a laughing stock. Besides, it is not only Talbot he has to consider. There is also …

  He is clear of the stage and starting to climb the stairs.

  And then he slips.

  He bloody slips!

  He slides down three steps, banging his shins on each one. He grabs on to the rail and hauls himself up again.

  The spotlight will be shining on the balcony soon, and if he is not there when it appears …

  He reaches the platform and quickly clips on his harness. He grabs the noose, and slips it around his neck.

  He could use a second or two to compose himself, but he can manage without them if he has to. And he does have to manage without them – because now the spotlight hits him.

  He steps off the platform into empty air. He hears the cries of horror from the audience, and anticipates the gasps of relief when, after falling no more than two feet, his harness restrains him.

  He feels something snap, and suddenly he is plunging towards the stage, with the noose tightening around his neck.

  For a split second, he experiences a terror he never imagined possible – and then there is only blackness.

  The rope tightened, and Mark Cotton came to a violent jerking halt. And there he hung, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, his feet swinging gently a mere four feet from the stage.

  Some of the company froze. At least two of
them screamed. Only Phil McCann had the presence of mind to gesture frantically to the stagehands that they should close the bloody curtains.

  The curtains did close, leaving the audience on the other side of them somewhat perplexed.

  The actors had saved the biggest shock for the end, the audience thought – and it certainly had been shocking enough.

  But was it, in fact, the end?

  It all seemed a little too abrupt.

  Yet perhaps that was how it had been written – perhaps that was how plays did end in those days.

  And if it was the end, it seemed only polite to clap – so why wasn’t everybody else doing just that?

  Eventually, embarrassment – and the fear of being thought rude – led one section of the audience to start applauding, and then the rest joined in.

  But it was half-hearted at best, because though the audience knew that they couldn’t really have just seen a man die – though it had to be a very clever trick – they still felt vaguely uneasy.

  ‘I’ll handle this, boss.’ Meadows said, standing up. ‘You stay here with Louisa.’

  She edged to the end of the row, walked down the aisle, climbed the steps, and stepped through the curtain. The scene which greeted her on the stage had not changed much. Most of the actors were still where they had been when the curtain closed. The only one who had moved was the actor playing the King of Spain. He was now standing centre stage, holding Mark Cotton by the legs, and lifting him slightly, so that the rope was not quite so taut.

  Not that that would do any good, Meadows thought.

  She held up her warrant card, for them all to see.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ she demanded.

  The actor who played the Duke of Castile raised his arm and pointed to the hanging man.

  ‘He is,’ he said, in a voice as hollow as if he’d spoken the words into a bucket.

  ‘Then who’s his assistant?’ Meadows said.

  A man in cord trousers and a thick woollen cardigan walked unsteadily on to the stage.

  ‘I’m the manager,’ he said. ‘Or, at least, I used to be.’

  He was drunk, Meadows thought, but he still seemed a better option than any of the others.