“Can I say I want to help protect people?” Lorna said. “That way the audience will care more. Maybe I could say I want my parents to be safe.”
“You’ve said enough,” Dudley retorted without looking away from Vincent. “I think she says too much. I got bored.”
“You want to get rid of the woman as fast as you can, do you?” Lorna said.
A mutter of female agreement made Dudley stare harder at Vincent. “We wouldn’t dream of getting rid of you,” the director said. “We couldn’t make the film without any of you. How did it feel to you, Colin?”
“I’ll be happy when everyone else is.”
This was so unlike anything that Mr Killogram would say that Dudley had to reassure himself it was a ruse. “Maybe we can pace it up a bit,” Vincent said. “How about if Lorna says ‘Law. There are too many criminals’ and then Colin goes straight to asking her to help?”
“That’s more like what would happen,” Dudley said.
He would have expected more appreciation of his willingness to compromise. Only Mr Killogram sent him a complicit grin as Vincent said “Let’s go for a take while we’ve got the Pier Head behind us.”
Dudley watched the film crew perform Vincent’s bidding without needing to be told—either that or Vincent agreed with them. He’d expected the director to do his job more as a man should. Perhaps Vincent was trying to prove himself by telling Mr Killogram that he’d begun the take too early. Dudley thought the urgency felt like commitment, and he had to restrain his impatience as Mr Killogram waited for the camera to retreat to its starting point. It had only just swerved to find him when he said “Out for a blow?”
“Still too early,” Vincent interrupted. “Wait till Joan’s framed both of you and then give it a beat. Don’t worry, we’ve got all day.”
Dudley reminded himself that he’d known about the possibility and that the package was securely shut up to await his return. He couldn’t judge how much of the impatience he was experiencing belonged to Mr Killogram. “Take your time. Enjoy it,” he said.
“Believe me, I am.” His other self said nothing more until “Out for a blow?”
This repetition went so well that Dudley hardly noticed that his house was creeping closer at his back. Mr Killogram had almost reached his final line when he gave Lorna a quizzical grin. “Am I losing it? You don’t look too convinced.”
Before Dudley could warn her that she had better be, Lorna said “Is she meant to be stupid?”
“No more so than any of his other victims, would you say, Dudley?”
“Then that must be pretty stupid,” Lorna said. “There’s a diagram behind you that shows where the propeller is. She wouldn’t need to lean over here.”
“We won’t be filming it,” Vincent said. “The audience won’t know it’s there.”
“People that use the ferry may, and I will.”
Dudley saw the propeller separating her stubborn expression from the bone, and did his best to be content with the prospect of the diversions awaiting him at home. “Whatever she’s called doesn’t,” he said.
“That’s another point. Why don’t we know her name? It’s like telling the audience she’s so much of a victim she doesn’t deserve one, like she isn’t even human.”
Dudley agreed, but might have suggested calling her Lorna if Vincent hadn’t pointed out “She gets to say she’s a student and what kind. There isn’t really anywhere in the script for her to introduce herself. We can give her a name on the end credits. Maybe Dudley won’t mind if you choose one.”
“I’ll let her,” Dudley said, since there would be more of Lorna in the victim.
The ferry was too close to Liverpool for the crew to film another take. At least everyone had all-day tickets. As the vessel left the Pier Head behind again, Dudley watched Bidston begin to creep closer and then concentrated on the more immediately important situation. When the camera found Mr Killogram once more, he hesitated. “Doesn’t a blow mean something different in America? That’s if we’re expecting the film to travel that far.”
Red emitted such a snort that the microphone with which she’d been fishing for dialogue wobbled. “It means that here too. I thought it was meant to show what a prat he is.”
How much of Dudley’s confidence did she and her crony intend to try to undermine? He was imagining her being dragged through the propeller—raw Red—when Mr Killogram suggested “How would it be if I say ‘Enjoying your cruise’?”
All three girls burst out laughing. “That’s even worse,” Lorna spluttered.
By now the propeller was clogged with flesh and the wake of the ferry was crimson. Dudley had no idea what might have escaped his mouth if Vincent hadn’t said “Out for the day.”
Dudley watched the camera back off so as to venture up to Mr Killogram yet again. “Out for the day?” Mr Killogram said.
They seemed to be. First Lorna was overcome by mirth, apparently remembering one of the lines they’d done without, and at the start of the next take Joan and Red were. Next it was Mr Killogram’s performance that began to lose control. He smirked too widely at the end of the scene, or he was too openly ironic or amused, and then too menacing as if to compensate. Vincent tried to offer him any enforced breaks in filming as opportunities to regain his skill, but couldn’t the director see that it was all the girls’ fault? Perhaps Mr Killogram was too busy imagining how he would like to deal with them to focus on his performance. By the dozenth repeat of the scene Dudley’s entire head felt parched with frustration, not just at the increasingly unsatisfactory spectacle but because he wondered if he was missing a more diverting one at home: the awakening of the package, its muffled cries and useless struggles. He was further distracted by having to keep passengers out of shot. “It’s a film of a story of mine,” he kept saying, and some of the voyagers stayed to watch; some even hushed their children before he would have had to. At least there wasn’t enough noise to spoil any takes that might have been worth preserving—not until the ferry swung like a minute hand yet again back to Liverpool. As the ferry nuzzled the landing-stage and pivoted to rest against it, Dudley heard a girl yell “On the boat.” It was a signal for her and three more to dash down the ramp.
Their racket would be no asset to the film. He loitered at the top of the stairway to warn them, but they grew quiet as they climbed the stairs. “We’re filming up here,” he said all the same. “You can watch if you like but you mustn’t make any noise.”
The foremost girl made her eyes big and enthusiastic. “What are you filming?” she whispered.
“It’s a story of mine. Mr Killogram.”
“It’s a story of his,” she informed her friends.
If she thought it worth repeating, Dudley wouldn’t disagree. The girls lingered on the stairs, giving him a display of four sets of eager eyes and parted lips. “You don’t need to wait there,” he said. “We aren’t filming yet.”
“We’ll hang on till you start,” the foremost girl said.
Dudley thought of introducing them to Mr Killogram, but he could do that later. As the film crew took up their positions he moved away from the stairs to let the girls onto the deck. Vincent called for the camera and then the action, and Mr Killogram said “Out for the day?” precisely when and how he should. The film was happening at last, Dudley thought. He even smiled at Lorna’s “Out for anything that does me good.” Mr Killogram was responding with surely not too pronounced a grin when the four girls began to stamp and chant. “An-ge-la. An-ge-la. Stop the film. Stop the film.”
Mr Killogram peered at them over his shoulder as Dudley confronted them. Their chant subsided into a mutter that gave way to silence. Dudley licked his lips to dislodge a question that felt like a dry hot gag. “What did you say?”
“Angela,” said the girl who did most of the talking, and took a defiant step towards him. “Angela Manning. The girl whose death you’re making money out of.”
He almost spat in her face with asking “What business
is it of yours?”
She stared at him as if she meant to equal the contempt he felt for her. “She was my friend.”
“So give her a rest. It’s people like you that keep digging her up.” He was letting his fury distract him when she hadn’t answered his first question. “I asked you what you said,” he hissed and wiped his mouth.
“I told you.”
“You’re a liar. You said something about Colin. You said it was Colin.”
The girl enlarged her eyes as she had on the stairs. “Is that his name?”
“You know it is,” Dudley said with almost more frustration than he could contain in words. “No, it’s Mr Killogram.”
“If you’re so sure of yourself,” a second girl said, “why are you asking?”
“I’m sure of everything. It’ll take more than a few bitches to stop me.” Dudley was about to back up his declaration however he could when a voice behind him said “Leave them alone.”
It was Mr Killogram. He must want to deal with them himself. Dudley swivelled to meet him, only to find Mr Killogram staring not at the girls but at him. “They were saying things about you,” Dudley felt he should make clear. “They don’t care how they mess up our film.”
“Pity.”
“It’s worse than that,” Dudley said and found a threat he could allow everyone to hear. “Maybe Walt can sue them for losing us money.”
As the girls did their best to sound incredulously amused Mr Killogram said “It’s a pity I couldn’t carry on.”
“You still can if we get rid of them. Vincent, doesn’t the captain have to chuck them off for causing trouble?”
“We’d love him to try it,” the foremost girl said with an even more spurious laugh.
Vincent jabbed his glasses against the bridge of his nose to scrutinise her. “Don’t I know you? Did you phone me?”
“That’s me. The girl you told you’d be filming round the river when you thought I was the press.”
“How stupid are you?” said Mr Killogram.
Though he was looking at Dudley, he could hardly be addressing him. “Who’s that meant for?” Dudley said.
“Christ, you are.” Mr Killogram let his grin sag. “You’re as stupid as that stupid bloody name of yours.”
“What’s wrong with my name?”
“The one you keep calling me.”
“Mr Killogram.”
“No, the name’s Colin Holmes. They know it is even if you’ve forgotten.”
“I expect that shows you’re famous, but you can’t say what your character’s called. I wrote him. You’re the actor.”
“I’ll go on acting, shall I?”
Dudley struggled to master his emotions. Just because he and Mr Killogram had disagreed, that needn’t mean they had to part. After all, at times he had arguments inside his own head. “You can when there’s nobody trying to interfere,” he said. “You were getting good before.”
“I mustn’t have been bad enough, must I.”
Dudley felt the deck lurch underfoot as if the world had. Mr Killogram’s remark was addressed to the girls. Presumably Vincent was too thrown to notice, since he said “I don’t get this at all. Why would you want to be bad in a film?”
“It’s these bitches,” Dudley said through a grin like a skull’s. “They made him sneak into our film to spoil it.”
“Wrong as usual,” said the false Mr Killogram. “It was all my idea and I’m proud of it.”
“Don’t tell us you’re another of what’s her name, Angela’s friends.”
“She had plenty. I shouldn’t think you’d know what that’s like.” The man who had pretended to be Mr Killogram widened his pitying smile. “I was in plays with her at school,” he said. “Quite a few of us carried on acting. Maybe you’ll hire some more of us and not know.”
“You aren’t telling us she was an actress. She couldn’t put on much of a performance.”
Dudley was remembering how the best she could produce was to throw out her hands as if they could ward off the train. He didn’t grasp that he’d said too much until Vincent intervened. “You can’t say that, can you? You never saw her. Don’t lose it, Dudley.”
“It’s their fault if I have,” Dudley complained, surely not too late. “They’ve got me so I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Try thinking you shouldn’t be making this film,” said the man who’d tried to steal Mr Killogram’s identity. “That goes for all of you, the ladies in particular. I can’t believe you want to be mixed up with a film about killing women for pleasure.”
At the end of an awkward silence Joan said “We knew what it was when we signed up. We’re professionals even if we’re independents.”
Dudley was overcome by a rush of appreciation he wouldn’t have expected to feel. “You’re my kind of people,” he told the film crew.
It was Red who answered, and only following a pause. “We need the work.”
As Dudley strove to be content with that, the actor said “How about you, Lorna? Surely you’ve got more ambition than being killed off in the first scene.”
“You have to start somewhere,” Lorna said, then turned to Dudley and Vincent. “As long as I’m staying with your film, maybe you could give me a bit more to do.”
“I should think we can work something out, can’t we, Dudley?”
Dudley meant his mutter to commit them to no more than would rid them of the betrayer. The actor left Lorna a disparaging glance and led his admirers downstairs, telling them “Pity you showed up so soon. I’d have had them going for days.” Dudley glared after him until Vincent murmured “I’ll make some calls when I get home and we’ll have another casting session. Is there anyone you’d like to see again that we saw?”
“I wanted him.” Dudley knew he sounded childish, which enraged him all the more. “Get someone that can be trusted this time,” he said and began to pace the deck like a beast in a zoo as the ferry crawled towards Liverpool. He was so impatient to be home that he had to keep clenching his teeth to prevent his thoughts from shaping his mouth. Patricia had encouraged him to choose the actor, which was one more reason he was glad to have packaged her. At least the time it took to reach her would let him invent more for her to deserve.
THIRTY-TWO
“Oh, Patricia, how on earth have you managed to end up in this state?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re outside, mummy. How did you know where I was?”
“We had our doubts about that text that was supposed to be from you and so we had it traced. They can locate where the last message came from, you know.”
“Did you bring the police?”
“Just your father. For a bank manager he makes quite a house-breaker. It must be all that working with safes.”
“Get me out of here, then, before Dudley comes back.”
“I’d like to see him. I’d like more than a word with him.”
“So long as you don’t find yourself in trouble with the law, Gordon. Patricia, it may hurt while I’m taking this off you. It won’t last long, I promise.”
How could Patricia have been talking if her head was taped up? Being jerked out of her drowse by the realisation brought her close to tears. She felt moisture prickling the corners of her bound blind eyes until she succeeded in biting her flattened lip. Apart from the lapse in continuity, couldn’t she be rescued that way? If Dudley was home, surely her parents would insist on being let in, however plausible he tried to sound. The thought helped her fend off the other scene her mind kept producing, of Dudley pressing his unseen face against hers, smearing the tape with his tongue as he bruised fistfuls of her and scrabbled at her clothes. She was still capable of kicking, however awkwardly, which let her regain some sense of her unviolated self. If her parents didn’t save her, perhaps Dudley’s mother would. She had started to feel as she used to as a child with her head under the bedclothes, drifting into sleep and dreams, when she understood what that might imply. Was she being starved of air?
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br /> She twisted onto her back, stubbing half her fingertips against the bath, and tried to sit up. She’d raised her upper body only a few inches when a wave of dizziness broke in her head, leaving her throat harsh with nausea. Giving it time to subside felt like sinking helplessly into the dark. She reared up, unable to judge how badly she was wobbling, and barely remembered to duck so that just her shoulders and the nape of her neck thumped the lid of her prison. As the impact shook her she thought she felt the merest hint of shifting overhead.
Or was it her dizziness? She did her best to relax before pressing her shoulders against the barrier with all the strength she could find. This time all the unsteadiness seemed to be hers. The weight of her thoughts and the blackness dragged her head low. She no longer had the energy to budge the lid, she realised miserably, if indeed she ever could have—and then she wondered how much Dudley had. Could he really have planted such a heavy object on top of her without wakening her? Mightn’t she be trapped by a heap of objects that she could unbalance?
She was afraid to yield to this last hope in case it was dashed, but the alternative was to let the life be crushed out of her by her plight. She was unbending from her crouch when she grasped that she ought to plan. What did she want to happen? If the obstruction ended up on the floor it might leave her way clear, but equally it might create a further obstacle. She needed it to fall into the bath on the side away from the room.
Her mind seemed to be swimming in giddiness. Where would she have to apply the remains of her strength? If she was under the side that fell it might pin her down. She inched away from the unseen wall to prop her shoulders and the back of her head against the lid. Then, with a series of movements so cramped they felt as though she was trying to take it off guard, she attempted to jerk it away from the wall.
Even these efforts revived her nausea. She had an impression of rubbing her head soft, which she suspected had to mean that she was close to fainting. The thought enraged her but lent her no strength. Nor did the notion that Dudley was in the room and relishing her struggles. She had to believe that he wouldn’t have covered the bath unless he was leaving the house, but how much longer might he stay away? The idea of wasting precious time drove her to thrust her clumsy body upwards in a last attempt to dislodge the lid. The action set the darkness reeling around her and inside her, but was that the only movement? She levered at the barrier with a residue of energy she wouldn’t have believed she had. She couldn’t be sure that she was experiencing more than vertigo until she felt and heard the lid crash into the bath.
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