To the Devil - a Diva!

by Paul Magrs

  ‘She definitely said she was turning her back on it all,’ Colin said. ‘No more performing for me, she said.’

  ‘And now she’s going to be on five nights a week!’ Raf looked as worked up as Colin had ever seen him.

  ‘Have you seen Menswear?’ Colin asked. The waitress was bringing their tofu burgers and their plastic beakers of frothy shake.

  ‘Course,’ snapped Raf. Everyone had seen it. When it first started it had been big news: the producers had announced that they intended to push back the boundaries of decency. TV drama would never been the same again. And, at first, there had been a certain breathless fascination in seeing how far they would go in making a really dirty soap opera. The first glimpse of bare breasts, the first naked arse, terrestrial TV’s first flash of a full-blown hard-on: all of these tidbits were dutifully logged and discussed in the media. The queer press had given the show quite a lot of coverage, too, splashing screen grabs of naked male flesh and dwelling on the presence of Lance Randall in the cast. Manchester’s local press had gone overboard on Lance. His show was filmed here and this was where he lived: amongst them all, in the city’s own queer village.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Raf again, his voice turning deathly. He couldn’t even look at his lunch. The Daily Mirror rattled and shook in his slender fingers. ‘You know what this means, Colin.’ He looked up into Colin’s amused eyes.

  ‘Hm?’ Colin picked up his burger. Sauteed mushrooms dropped out, splashing in his baked beans.

  ‘It means she’s coming here. Karla’s coming here. To live and work. Amongst us. In our city. Of all the cities in the world … the queen of the lesbian vampires is going to be here … !’

  Colin wondered if Raf was going into shock.

  ‘Lance isn’t very pleased,’ he told him.

  Raf stared. He knew that his pal often saw Lance Randall, because the actor’s apartment was right next door to Slag! bar. ‘You’ve already talked to him about it?’

  Colin nodded, chewing and smiling, glad he had even more to disclose. ‘He was in the bar this morning. Swigging gin first thing. Looking mightily pissed off. I think it’s cause she’ll be the star of the show now and not him.’

  ‘Well, that’s right,’ said Raf. ‘He isn’t in Karla’s league, is he? Course he’s not. Just because he’s flashed his tired old bollocks about, it doesn’t make him a star. Karla, though … she’s the real thing. A proper, honest-to-goodness old-fashioned star.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on Lance,’ said Colin. ‘He’s a nice guy.’

  Raf shrugged. ‘Can I keep the paper?’

  ‘Sure. He fancies me, I reckon.’

  ‘Lance does?’

  ‘Keeps trying to get me up into his flat. Asking me to come up.’

  Raf frowned. ‘Yeah? I thought he said he isn’t queer. That’s just the character he plays on the telly?’

  Colin smiled. ‘You’ve not seen the way Lance looks at me. His eyes lit up when he saw me this morning.’

  Now Raf was looking strangely at Colin. ‘I wonder …’ He grinned. ‘I wonder if he can get me in,’ he said. ‘To meet Karla. In person.’ He drummed his hard nails on the laminated table. ‘I bet he can.’

  ‘To be honest, Raf … I wouldn’t be happy asking him.’

  ‘Not even for me?’

  ‘He hates her, Raf. Really, the way he looked this morning, when he heard the news … I reckon there’s gonna be trouble. There’s gonna be fireworks.’

  Raf was tutting and ripping the relevant pages out of the Mirror. ‘How could anyone hate Karla? She’s a wonderful, wonderful woman and human being. I just know she is.’

  NINE

  Karla was used to the very best in hotels. She knew what service was. She knew what luxury was like. Proper luxury. Not just a free bathrobe and a few tatty flowers on the console table. She’d been to LA and had her eyes opened. That was back when they were grooming her for Hollywood. She’d also been to Cannes in more recent years, when the critics had decided that – twenty-five years after the event – the sleazy films she had starred in were High Art after all, and not just trashy soft porn. So the high life was what she was used to. These days she took a certain level of comfort for granted.

  Well, why shouldn’t I? she thought. I’ve paid my dues. When I was starting out I had to stay in some grotty old dives. God, back when we were actually making those films we were sleeping in campervans in north Wales. Drizzle and asthma and early morning calls to go traipsing around in slate quarries with my bosoms hanging out. That’s what’s earned me luxury today, and it’s a long time coming.

  I deserve a bit of pampering now. Today of all days. I’ve got them a shitload of publicity for their poxy show.

  She was thinking furiously, to block out the shapes and spectres of the Manchester skyline all around her and to abate her nervous fears. Part of her mind was pushing away the memories of her last time here in this city, of all her early years here. She was coming back as an utterly different person. She was protected, she told herself. She was safe because of the invincible person she’d become.

  They say Manchester’s come up. Everything’s world class. Property prices through the roof. The Commonwealth Games, all that. Maybe now it’s big enough for me.

  Karla was keen not to feel that she was slumming it. But she needn’t have worried. When she arrived at the TV station’s hotel, the Prince Albert, she found that even her extravagant expectations were met. She eased herself out of the car, let Rupert the chauffeur take her bags, and composed herself. She put on a gloss of simmering dissatisfaction. It wouldn’t do to look too keen and excited. She mustn’t seem too grateful for this second bite at the cherry. She was a mature and famous lady and, like the city itself, had been redeveloped quite a few times over. She had to be both exquisite and blasé.

  Karla shrugged on this carefully constructed mien and strode like a panther onto the veined marble flooring of the Prince Albert’s foyer. She made sure she drew glances and comments as she went.

  Fame like hers, she’d once told HIYA magazine, was like an old pair of flashy shoes. Your arches and toes could still be deformed by them, and they could make your feet really stink. But once they were broken in, you could fetch them out again and again, and walk comfy. No bother.

  TEN

  The porter had seen the Daily Mirror that morning. He said so in the lift. He looked wary of her, hardly daring to breathe. He was wondering whether she’d mind if he talked to her.

  He was dressed up like a little monkey, in an old-fashioned porter’s uniform. Small hat, epaulettes, gold braid. Karla liked that. A bit of tradition. Respect. He was standing by her luggage. She’d brought a minimum of luggage. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be here and, besides, Flissy would get her a great deal. She’d buy all new. First day off, she’d be down Kendals and King Street. All the Manchester stores she could never have afforded to shop in, back in the old days.

  She realised the waiter was talking to her, asking about the show. And before she knew it, she was answering him. Even telling him she’d never watched the silly programme in her life. Only heard how naughty it was. Her voice was coming out in her slow drawl. Treacle poured onto sizzling flesh: that was the sound of her voice. Dulcet. She was talking like a vampire lady. Putting on the old shtick. She looked the porter up and down. Golden mirrors all around the lift. Very flattering.

  The porter was a little overweight, just a bit tubby and hairy. She liked that, considering him as they rose slowly to the suite at the top of the Prince Albert. He was standing close to her, the luggage between them. She watched him swallow his nervous saliva down. She pushed out her breasts. Made it seem that they were filling all the unoccupied space in the elevator. She couldn’t help herself. She just did this kind of thing automatically. She watched his sharp adam’s apple bob and steady.

  When they got to her suite and he grappled with the key card she tipped him generously. He demonstrated a few things. Where the light switches were, the pho
ne.

  By then Karla had lost patience and interest in him. She needed her lie down. The porter was wanting something he could show off to his mates about. Something to mark him out. She pictured him in the staffroom, somewhere in the basement, perhaps, where all the porters and chambermaids sat smoking and drinking sweet milky tea. He’d be telling them how close he’d come to making it with the vampire lady. It would be the most exciting thing in his life so far and all the others would listen close.

  She looked at him and caught a glint in his eye. Cocky little thing. He licked his lips, hands clasped behind his back.

  Oh, well. Give him something to do. Might as well.

  ‘I wonder if you could you do me a very great favour … ?’

  ‘Of course, Ms Sorenson.’

  ‘I need to get in touch with my producer, Adrian. Could you get onto the studio for me?’ She handed him the note with the office’s number on. ‘I’m too tired to see anyone just yet. But perhaps they could send me some tapes of the show? I could do some homework here in the hotel.’

  The porter nodded briskly.

  ‘Oh … and one more thing. My co-star, Lance Randall.’ The porter blinked in recognition.

  ‘I’m a very old, very dear friend of his family. He’ll be delighted to know that I’m joining the cast of his show. Do you think you could ask Adrian for his home number? I’d like to contact him first, before we have to meet in the studios.’

  The porter nodded, committing all of her instructions to memory. He was trying very hard. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Kevin, Ms Sorenson.’

  ‘Well, Kevin. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. But while I’m back in Manchester, the Prince Albert is going to be my headquarters, at least for the first little while.’ She flicked her eyes around the airy, muted room and smiled, her gaze came back to rest on Kevin in his scarlet porter’s outfit. She dipped that gaze momentarily and was gratified to see that hard little knot of flesh in those uniform trousers. ‘My headquarters … and my lair.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re very honoured,’ he said.

  ‘I would like to count you among my personal staff, Kevin.’

  He nodded and his adam’s apple was trembling again. As if he was daring himself to do something rash. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘You … you could … do … that thing.’

  Karla frowned. ‘What thing?’ she asked, knowing full well.

  ‘The thing you used to do in all your movies. When you made someone into your … servant …’ Kevin smiled weakly, eagerly. ‘Maybe you could … do that to me.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Karla said. And she stepped towards him.

  It didn’t take long.

  ELEVEN

  There was a view from her windows that she didn’t recognise. She’d thought she still knew this city well. This was the centre, right by the TV studios, right at the end of Deansgate. Still, she didn’t recognise the view. Where the sludgy old canals once lay parched and dilapidated, they’d put flatblocks with balconies. There were restaurants under the railway arches. A Harry Ramsden’s on the road to Eccles, by what appeared to be a casino. It would take some getting used to.

  The suite they’d given her wasn’t all that bad. Flatteringly posh enough. Orchids were set out on the bedside table, along with her morning’s press cuttings, and a little note from the producer, Adrian. Slimy, but beautiful penmanship. Public schoolboy type, she knew. Call him, he said, when she arrived, safe and sound.

  Now she was up here, though, all she wanted was a lie down. A calming nap. The Brunchtime show, the press attention, and the ride up here had worn her down. All her insides were jumping about. She had to get a grip. She could blow it all by being too nervous and too keen. Let Adrian the producer with the beautiful hand wait a little while. Let other people get on with their jobs now. Flissy had her agenting to do, more negotiations with the TV people. All Karla had to do was be ready, sit tight, and keep her gob shut for a bit. Everything would fall into her lap.

  But first, an afternoon nap, and still the same dream. It had pursued her here to the North, to her grand new setting. The dream that had gone on for years.

  That awful old man with the bald and freckled head. He was looming over her, lording it over her. Two long ears like rashers of bacon stuck to the sides of his head. An ugly man, radiating ill will and temper. Something magnetic about him, though. Something that made you look twice and that drew you in. He was so cultivated. He knew about opera and art and the Left Hand Path. So mannered, so polite. And he talked very quietly, so that you had to lean in to pick up what he was saying to you. And by then you were lost.

  He was a Count. That’s what the make-up and costume girls had told her. A real Count, born. It wasn’t a fake title. When he came to visit the cast and crew on location there were whispers, flurries of excitement.

  North Wales in February. l968. They were camped in a slate quarry, as far away from the Sixties as anyone could be. Everything dreary and damp. Spirits low on the set of ‘Get Inside Me, Satan!’ The Count was coming and somehow that cheered everyone and boosted morale. The regal presence of this bald, malign old gent.

  The freckles on his head had been the colour of Brussels pate. In her light sleep in the afternoon, all these years later, Karla shivered at the sight of him again, running a cool finger over those freckles on the dome of his skull. He came back so clearly in her dreams. She had never forgotten a single detail of his compact, bristling figure. He was the author of the novel, and he’d had a hand in the shooting script. A clawed, twisted hand. A great personal friend of the producer, the backers of the movie. A friend of so many influential people: well-connected, powerful. Of course Karla had needed to get to know him. She was the star of his show. She was meant to be breathing life into what everyone agreed was the Count’s greatest creation.

  He was also a millionaire. Had been one even before all those worldwide bestsellers. The greatest, most successful Occult writer the world had ever known. Sitting in Karla’s trailer in a Welsh slate quarry. Opening the brandy, talking with her as they sat in front of a hissing gas fire.

  Not that he ever claimed to be an occultist himself. He explained this to her patiently, mildly, spreading his pointed fingers as he warmed his glass.

  ‘Oh, no. Never. In fact, my various novels and literary endeavours exist for the sole purpose of warning the foolish public of the very real dangers in dabbling with such powers.’

  ‘I see,’ Karla said, drawing her legs up on her ocelot banquette and considering him over the rim of her glass. He was like a little gargoyle. Not so powerful here, in her mobile home from home.

  ‘There are evil charlatans out there, Miss Sorenson,’ the Count said. ‘Replaying the old rituals and misusing the ancient texts. They do it simply to seduce young men and women; to exploit them to their own vile ends. But, besides the charlatans, there are also some genuine cults and occultists and these are to be avoided even more strenuously. It is these people I write about and it is against them that I counsel caution.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see me being in any danger from Satanists,’ Karla smiled.

  The Count raised an eyebrow. ‘You speak too rashly. Here, in this place, you are embodying evil itself. This brings you very close to the dangers I am describing. You must watch out for yourself, Karla.’

  She shrugged, lightly, and laughed at him. For a second, his eyes blazed at her.

  ‘Sometimes I feel these are the last days,’ he said, his voice thickening. ‘The world is going mad. Hedonism is everywhere and the old, sensible hierarchies and orders are being chipped away and eroded day by day. I am compelled to make a stand, personally, publicly, against a society that has started to believe that everything should come easy and free to them. A society that has started to celebrate decadence … and evil.’

  ‘They’re the ones that buy your novels,’ Karla said. ‘And who want to watch movies of your books. Have you ever thought about that?’

  His face darkened. ‘Of cour
se I have. It’s a terrible irony and one that is offensive to me in some ways. I myself am a symptom of my own worst fears.’

  For a second he looked a pathetic figure. Karla watched him. Then his eyes flashed again.

  ‘I find the paradox of my importance both delicious and highly profitable.’

  The Count had arrived in his smoke grey Daimler and he stayed in their quarry for three days. He brought three yorkshire terriers, gallons of champagne and brandy, two thousand cigarettes, his trusty Remington travel typewriter and his ancient hag of a wife, Magda, who hobbled about the place in a floor-length mink. Magda had squawked in dismay at the bleakness of the quarry, the quality of the catering, and the fact that the Count paid her less than no attention during those heady days of shooting.

  The Count was mucking in eagerly with the young people. The crew were long-haired, in filthy jeans and afghan coats. They looked malnourished and they were stoned. The cast were blue-skinned like the slate itself. They were dressed indecently and their performances elicited shivers of salacious disapproval from the movie’s author. They were doing such a good job. He strode around the valley floor, stepping nimbly over cables, rubbing his liver-spotted hands and snorting gleefully through his pugilist’s nose.

  He was especially delighted with Karla Sorenson at the peak of her devilish perfection.

  His delight was something that she basked in. That covered her like a second skin.

  It was a sensation Karla remembered and relived in nightmares all this time later. Even when she put her head down for just forty winks.

  She still had time to reach the inevitable ending of that dream. The end of the three days of filming. When the old Count’s wife met her own spectacularly grotesque end. Karla could still see it all and the dream wouldn’t let her wake until she’d witnessed it all. Over thirty years later, it was tattooed on the insides of her eyelids.