Backstabbers - Chapter 13
Different Orbits
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
“Community Play - AUDITIONS TODAY!”
It would be a day long remembered.
Acoustic guitars. Impromptu dancing. Dramatic delivery. Exasperating vocal warm-ups.
The Bernard Saucier Theatre zinged with excitable aspiring thespians. Script underarm, Stu breathed in the sight; empowered as the cause of such mayhem. The community play may not have been his idea, but his words were now a platform for Falking Hill’s finest performers.
Celia Landaker played to the local Press on the theatre steps, like Evita addressing the huddled masses outside the balcony of the Casa Rosada. ‘Where there is apathy, may we bring passion. Where there is boredom, may we bring entertainment!’
The last time Stu had felt such dream-like confusion was when he was a six-year-old, having woken and got dressed for school, only to be informed it was Boxing Day.
A spite-filled question spoken in close proximity popped Stu’s euphoric bubble.
‘Who does she think she is?’ Tony Nedwell, former arts counsellor-turned dishevelled mess, stood uneasily; legs like wobbling stilts. Clueless as to what to say, Stu managed ‘You alright, yeah?’ Of course Tony wasn’t okay. Anyone could see that. He resembled death warmed up.
‘Tell Paula to call me,’ said Tony; his voice barely registering. ‘Not at my flat. I’m not there anymore. I’m staying with my Mum.’ Not knowing what to say, Stu reached into his pocket, handing Tony a couple of pound notes.
Celia flagged Stu over for a photo opportunity. Awkwardly thumbs up, Stu forced a smile as Celia flung her arms, blocking his startled face.
In the theatre foyer, actors worked on their audition pieces. The electrified chatter elevated to a contagious chant. I Hope I Get It, I Hope I Get It… Stu had never witnessed random people burst into song for no reason before. Only in films his Mum liked.
A corgi scuttling behind Queen Celia, the sea of eyes followed Stu across the foyer. Clusters of cliques. Veiled commentary. Desperate, winning smiles. Jealous, seething stares.
Celia punched in the code for the backstage door, gliding down a corridor of porridge-white brick walls and red vinyl flooring. Dick Pitkin and Jackie Jiggins smoked and sunned themselves by the open stage door. ‘It’s like D-Day out there,’ remarked Jackie. Dick took a long draw on his rolly, world-weary eyes narrowing with disapproval. ‘If it were it’d be a lot quieter.’
Winding upstairs with Celia leading at a distance, Stu’s path was blocked by Shepperton; a scotch in one hand and a cigarillo perched in the other. ‘So. The worm has turned,’ said Shepperton. Stu stood, mouth half-open at the accusation of being a treacherous worm.
Shepperton's demeanour softened. ‘Congratulations, I suppose. At least I can count on you to be my eyes and ears. For when Celia plots my beheading.’ Shepperton made way for Stu but perched a gentle hand on his shoulder before he could take a step. ‘A dash of slap and a comb through my hair is all I ask.’
The high level of anticipation from the would-be superstars in the foyer was a sharp contrast to the rehearsal room, where Drama Guild leaders sat with tense expressions. The script meeting had been a disaster. Stu struggled not to squirm as his play was torn to shreds before his eyes – the equivalent of having your innards exposed and stamped over, with the expectation of a ‘thank you’ at the end of it. Bob exhaled cigarette smoke, trying to make sense of it. ‘The ideas are fine, the execution’s terrible.’
‘One final note to the playwright: Barry is not a name for a hero,’ said Vivienne.
‘Barry is a bit third-division footballer,’ agreed Bob.
‘That’s the least of its problems,’ grumbled Celia. ‘We must assign a co-writer immediately.’
Bob sat back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. ‘You can’t polish plop, Celia. You know that.’
Stu sunk further into his chair and prayed for immediate death. Or teleportation to an alternate world where he was lauded.
Celia peered over the top of her glasses, speaking with authority. ‘We’ll assign Max Monteith for a rewrite.’ Bob’s head tilted to the ceiling, laughing to himself at the thought. ‘Pfft. Max Monteith wanted to be a priest, but couldn’t handle being told what to do by God.’
‘Oh don’t be so facetious, Bob,’ said Celia; spirit waning.
‘No no no,’ said Vivienne. ‘We all read Max’s slim pickings. All the depth of a Crispy pancake.’
Ha. Better than Max Monteith. Stu took smug comfort in those words.
A tea trolley rattled in. Lena pulled her best hostess pose, failing to gauge the downbeat mood in the room. Stu pounced on a plate of bourbon biscuits, determined to get something from the ordeal.
‘I’m beginning to think Pru Sloman had a lucky escape from all this,’ said Bob.
‘I’ll burn your house down for a fiver,’ joshed Vernon, only to be reprimanded by his wife.
‘I suppose muggins here will have to rewrite the play,’ said Celia, in hope that playing the put-upon martyr would actually score her the gig. But a fresh, enthused voice entered the arena.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Lena. ‘I can do it.’
The Guild paused at Lena’s suggestion. Energised, Stu seized the lifeline immediately. ‘Yes. Yes. Lena can do it.’ The room weighed up the proposal. They knew there was no alternative. Celia’s spine straightened with revived purpose. ‘You’ve got one week to get the script fixed. We will audition today. Call back anyone with any semblance of talent. The first read-through is next Saturday.’ The room mumbled in agreement. Celia made notes, calling the next item. ‘Next on the agenda: Who is going to direct this masterpiece?’ One more, the room fell into dispute.
Switches flicked. Lights beamed. A metallic handle clunked. The whoosh of a rising curtain. A wire-brush-headed amateur body-builder stepped onto the stage. Tight T-shirt and denim shorts.
Celia’s steely voice called out from the auditorium. ‘Name? What is your name?’
‘Er… Dean Sheather,’ came the uncertain reply from the muscular cauliflower on the stage.
‘Dean, love. Can you sing?’ asked Vivienne.
Dean shrugged, supposing so. If his life depended on it, maybe. Dean summoned composure. He stomped, bellowing like a pub brawler. ‘Hit me with your rhythm stick! Hit me! Hit meeeeee!’
Dean ceased his ungainly stomping, awaiting feedback with positive expectations. Out in the sea of red rows of seats, faces sunk into their hands.
Numerous performers auditioned throughout the morning. Hugh Batey delivered grizzled Shakespearian angst. Emily Fothergill bellowed an aria. Paula Fraygrent high-kicked like a scantily-clad Pans Person. Big J preened, ripping off his t-shirt to expose his muscular torso. Little J tap danced for his life. Nigel performed the theme to The Muppet Show on a Stylophone, making the occasional slip-up.
There were a lot of impersonators: Max Bygraves. Tommy Cooper. Laurel and Hardy. Larry Graysons wailed ‘Shut that door! What a gay day!’ Norman Collier and his faulty microphone. Twenty-five Frank Spencer “Ooooh Betty’s” of wide-ranging authenticity. There was even a Fonzie, courtesy of an obese man in his fifties wearing a leather jacket, thumbs out. A half-hearted ‘Ey!’
Bob Rothwell removed his cringing face from his hands, shaking his head at the impending doom. ‘Falking Hill. A hotbed of talent. It’s like they’re not remotely taking this seriously.’ Bob nodded to Elke, sitting in the front row with Gary. ‘When is she going to dazzle us with her dramatic prowess?’
‘Elke is playing the lead role, as per Bedford’s final wish,’ said Celia. ‘We agreed on this.’
Bob went into a full-on meltdown. ‘I didn’t. This is madness. This production is going to fall flat on its face. We are going to be the laughingstock of Falking Hill. It’s got to be stopped.’
Celia checked her clipboard of names, ignoring Bob’s hysteria. ‘Nothing is stopping. We must push on.’
‘Yeah? Feel free to do it without me. Good luck with it all.’ Bob stood for a moment, waiting to be stopped; to be told “Don’t go, Bob. We can’t do it without you!” But there would be no cries of persuasion. All Celia did was call out ‘NEXT!’
Crouched on a lighting catwalk, high above the auditorium, Stu had a bird’s eye view of Celia and the other talent spotters. Elke and Gary, and further along from them, Lena, scrawling on the pages of his script.
Stu tried to gauge her reaction. Lena shuddered with laughter. Why was she laughing? It wasn’t a comedy. Resentment fired up. What had she ever done that was any good?
That question was answered when Lena was called to the stage. Stu crept at speed along the catwalk, stepping down into the flies. He arched over the handrail for a better view, as Lena performed a heartfelt rendition of Send in the Clowns. Stu’s sourness melted into rapturous awe. If only everybody else thought the same.
Secreted away in the control room, theatre technicians and regular Waldorf and Statler impersonators Daz and Wesley howled with laughter. ‘Fortify the battlements! We’re under siege from deluded amateurs! Ugh. Shooting’s too good for ‘em. What on earth is Shepperton thinking?’ roared Daz.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all rather fun, don’t you think?’ reasoned Wesley. Daz turned his nose up.
‘Someone should put the lot of ‘em out of their misery. Especially this whinging little tart.’
Shoulders rounded, Stu shuffled past an endless headache of eager-to-please performers. Hugh’s rigid hands lunged at him; a bear mauling an unsuspecting victim. Stu knew what it all meant. Before today he was invisible to those people. Now they saw him.
‘I have absolutely no sway with the director or casting decisions.’ said Stu, shrinking and slithering from Hugh’s clasp.
Pacing onwards, a pint of lager was thrust into Stu’s hand, which he accepted without hesitation. Gary draped his arm around Stu’s shoulders. ‘This is nice. Communal. Young ladies in short shorts. I can get with this.’
Stu’s brow furrowed. ‘What are you talking about? It’s like the last days of Rome.’
‘Maybe I should audition?’ said Gary, bursting into a squeaky-voice Noo Yoik accent. ‘Show business is in my veins…’
Having downed half of his pint, Stu wiped his frothy top lip on his sleeve. ‘Compared to what I just saw, you’ll probably get the lead role.’
Within a few hours, the theatre foyer was a ghost ship. The music was a little louder in an attempt to create a semblance of atmosphere. But no amount of Kenny Rogers’ Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town could disguise the fact that the lack of programming.
Shepperton organised a series of “One Night Stands”, as he referred to it. Brave-facing his situation, he had embraced his new role of hard-nosed theatre pimp, “prostituting his stage” to whoever could get the punters in. Travelling shows, crooners, comedians, charitable youth organisations.
Daz’s endless moaning seemed to echo around the building, bitching about bookings such as The Black and White Minstrels and lager-fuelled stand-up comedian Maynard Flaxton and his bottomless pit of “Take my mother-in-law” gags. All far from ideal, but Shepperton revelled in the juicy role of war-time Churchill, and he was going to ensure victory for the Saucier theatre or die trying.
A glass of sherry stood untouched on a table. Stu’s fingernails jittered on his near-empty pint glass. From nowhere, Lena plonked onto the springy chair opposite Stu, a pint of the black stuff in hand. Lena clocked the sherry. ‘Is this for me? Aw, aren’t you cute?’
Stu failed not to blush at being called ‘cute’. Lena slid the manuscript to the centre of the table. ‘So…Tell me the story. What do you think the play is about?’
Put on the spot, Stu glanced shiftily around. ‘What, now?’ Lena’s shoulders dropped with exhausted disbelief. Stu knew he sounded daft. ‘Uh, well… community, I s’pose. Political drama…’
That didn’t sound right to Lena. ‘Oh. Oh! I thought it was a comedy!’
‘There’s a satirical element. Not really a comedy as such…’
‘Who's the main character? What are they like?’
‘He’s… I dunno. I dunno,’ said Stu, struggling for an answer. ‘He’s a nice guy.’
‘Oh brilliant. Writes itself, doesn’t it?’ said Lena.
Rattled by her sarcasm, Stu sat upright, ready to give some back. ‘He's naive when it comes to girls. Especially those that use him whenever they feel like it.’
Lena wasn’t playing around anymore. ‘He’s at the mercy of the other villagers who, let’s face it, are far more interesting than he is.’
‘Well it’s about him, alright?’ said Stu, defensively. I suppose you’d like it to be about the shopkeeper’s daughter? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Lena’s voice raised. ‘She’s got more going for her than that sap!’ That was the final straw. Stu grabbed his coat off the chair next to him. ‘Well, clearly you don’t need me…’
‘Oh stop sulking,’ droned Lena. ‘This isn’t about your feelings. You didn’t win because your play was any good. If the other plays hadn’t gone up in smoke we wouldn’t even be sitting here.’
Having heard enough, Stu drained his pint. He stood to leave. Lena slid the sherry towards him. ‘Sit down and drink that.’ Stu considered it. He retook his seat, knocking the sherry back in one.
Two hours later, Lena and Stu had left. Their table of many empty glasses was cleared by Fred the barman. Locking up the box office, Jackie Jiggins slung on her coat, leaving with Shepperton.
They passed by the wall-mounted masks, failing to notice the mask of Comedy was missing its grim-faced counterpart, Tragedy. All that remained on the wall was a tell-tale, sun-smudged outline of a grotesque grimace where the mask once hung.
Screen One at the ABC Cinema. Steep rows of empty seats flowed down into a plunging abyss. Gary had bunged the projectionist a week’s pay to impress Elke with a private screening of Moonraker. As Bond pursued Drax’s killer globes through space, Gary outstretched his arm, snake-like around Elke’s shoulder as she nibbled on popcorn. Startled at the touch of Gary’s fingers, she launched the popcorn skywards. ‘What are you doing? It’s all on the floor...’
Gary sloped off, muttering grievance. Pacing along an art-deco corridor of mirrors, passing an eternally shuttered bar area, Gary descended a winding ornate staircase into the dark lobby.
Engrossed in the film, Elke’s eye line drifted down to a silhouetted figure standing at the bottom of the aisle. A questioning frown. The figure moved up the steps towards her; its golden mask of Tragedy reflected in the projected light. From under its cloak, Tragedy revealed a pickaxe. Elke’s eyes widened. The pick rose high. Elke propelled herself backwards over her seat as the pickaxe embedded into it.
Elke scuttled along the aisle, staggering to her feet. She played a couple of dummy moves before sprinting towards the exit. Tragedy gave chase, grabbing for Elke as she leapt over a bannister, dropping onto the exit staircase. Tumbling down the steps, she yelped in agony. Her leg. Aghast with frustration and fear, Elke dragged herself down the last few steps.
Tragedy appeared at the top of the stairs, pickaxe poised. The exit door swung open behind Elke, making contact with the back of her head.
Popcorn in arms, blank-faced Gary peered upstairs to the figure, then down to Elke, unconscious at his feet. Gary unhooked a bronze barrier pole, ready to do some damage. The attacker was gone.
Back to the wall, Gary slid cautiously up the steps into the screening room. Scouring the area, heart pumping hard, Gary kept low. He moved across to the balcony wall.
The pickaxe slammed into the balcony wall, centimetres from his head. In those stunned seconds, a fire exit door slammed. Gary inspected the pickaxe handle. An inscription: DOC.
On the projector screen, Q surmised that Bond was attempting re-entry.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022