Backstabbers - Chapter 15
Wisdom of a Million Minds
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
‘What must the other plays have been like?’
The words rotated as Stu rode the 252 to the theatre. A necessary passing of time to process that question.
‘What must the other plays have been like?’
Having sloped downstairs semi-comatose, Stu limped through to the kitchen, attracted by the warming smell of warmed milk being poured by his Mum onto a bowl of Shreddies.
On the living room table, the latest edition of the Falking Advertiser bore yet another hysterical headline: Local writer missing! Beneath the headline was a photo of Lawrence Wintercoat.
Curled on the sofa in his dressing gown, Stu savoured the sweetly comforting breakfast as the radio played Band on the Run in the background. Godfrey sat in his armchair, faced buried in the Falking Advertiser. Stu stared directly at the headline with vacant eyes. Nothing registered.
His Dad spoke flatly from behind his newspaper. ‘Anything you would like to tell us, Stuart?’
Stu took a moment to frown, at first unaware that he was even being addressed. His Dad called out to the kitchen. ‘Jemima. Are you aware that your son won a playwriting competition?’
Curious, Stu’s mum leant into view from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘Look,’ said Godfrey, ‘says here “competition winner” Stuart Ostridge.’ Godfrey held the open newspaper aloft for his wife to read.
‘You won a writing competition?’ asked Stu’s Mum. He keenly nodded, ready for congratulations. Without missing a beat, his Mum’s response flatly arrived.
‘What must the other plays have been like?’ The words tarred Stu.
He envied those kids who grew up emboldened with the sense that they could do anything. Like the boy down the road whose parents let him paint a large animal head - possibly a cheetah? - exploding through the garage door in striking black and white. The perspective was off, but the boy’s parents were proud of their son’s artistic gift. After all, the painting was still there, five years later. Not that Stu had the desire to paint a massive mammal’s head on his parents’ garage. But it would be reassuring to know, should the mood possess him, encouragement would be there.
Arriving at the rehearsal room, obsessing about his parents’ disappointment, Stu failed to notice Gary directly addressing him; holding up the Falking Advertiser. ‘Have you read this? Brookes does a hatchet job on the play, and yet not one word about me saving Elke from a masked murderer. It’s like living in the Twilight Zone around here.’
Picking up on the downbeat hubbub in the room, Stu observed riled faces picking over the bones of Brookes Manders’ sniping. Celia reassured the cast that Brookes was plainly out for revenge for being disqualified from the competition, nothing more. The newspaper headline finally struck Stu. Where was Lawrence Wintercoat?
The first read-through. The cast and production team sat in a circle, introducing themselves. For some unknown reason, Emily was wearing a Nun’s habit. ‘Emily Fothergill. I am playing a nun called Sister Jinty. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘You know this is just a read-through?’ asked Little J. ‘Or is this how you’re dressing these days?’
‘Preparation avoids perspiration, my son,’ smiled Emily benevolently. Lena rolled her eyes at Emily’s tiresome performance. ‘Yeah, don’t milk it. Lena Darrow. Playing Aunt Elspeth.’
‘Reg McCluskey. Playing the Mayor.’ Hands held open, Reg introduced Melody like an unveiled oil painting. ‘This is my daughter. Not my real daughter. She no longer wishes to have contact.’
‘Melody. Montei…’ Big J spoke over Melody’s self-introduction. ‘Justin Cathro. Professional theatre and television actor. Playing Fingal.’
‘Jeremy Wrigley. Playing someone called Tavish, who apparently is a Shepherd for some reason… yet to be explained in the back story which no doubt Stuart will provide at some point.’
‘I’m Dean. If I can ask you all to refer to me by my character’s name - Paddy the Fisherman - that would be a big help. I like to really get into character.’
‘Gary Blenny. Robbie the Post boy.’
Big J jeered. ‘Finally got over yer stage fright, Gaz? Do you promise not to freeze this time, because it does somewhat ruin the momentum.’
Stu had never seen Gary devoid of a retort, rendered silent by the sting of humiliation. Those who knew of Gary’s previous unfortunate foray into stage performance childishly gasped, enjoying the tension. Vernon calmed the room before things got out of hand. ‘Yes, well, we’ve all had our moments, haven’t we? Some more than others.’ Big J was left to wonder what Vernon was getting at, as Vernon nodded to Kevin to move on.
‘Kevin Pardon. I’ve got the lead role of Hami Smaconwee.’
‘Hamish Maconwee,’ corrected Stu. Baffled, Kevin leafed through his script to double-check. Hugh Batey brushed off the idea of introducing himself. ‘You all know who I am.’ Celia shot Hugh one of her classic sardonic glares. Hugh got on with it. ‘Hugh Batey. Son of Bunty Batey.’
Paula rolled her eyes for all to see. ‘Not like you to name-drop your half-famous mother.’
‘I’m more famous than you’ll ever be,’ uttered Hugh, lighting the blue touch paper. ‘The blood of a Hollywood legend runs in these veins, love,’ said Hugh with assurance.
But Paula wasn’t letting it go. ‘Which legend? Might be the bloody janitor for all we know.’ The spitefulness dragged on, with Hugh repeatedly asking Paula ‘Who are you? Who. Are. You?’, only for Paula to volley the attack with ‘I’m that girl you used to get off with.’
Ryan threw a chair across the room, shocking the room into deathly silence. Paula seized the moment, introducing herself with a serene smile. ‘I’m Paula Fraygrent. I’m the star of the show.
Keys jangled. The wicket gate to the costume and props warehouse opened. Wesley stepped inside with Stu, calling for “Della”. From somewhere up on the mezzanine, a distant voice replied.
Wesley called out an introduction of sorts. ‘Della – Stuart! Stuart – Della! Everyone’s favourite Wardrobe Mistress!’ Della’s disembodied voice giggled. ‘Sauce!’
Wesley left Stu to it. On the mezzanine, Stu cautiously moved past hanging costumes, still unnerved from his previous disturbing episode with Bosie the theatre ghost. He caught sight of a short, curly-haired woman dressed like a fortune teller. All bangles and clattering necklaces. Della Hamble.
‘You must be the scribe. What do you think of this for the male lead?’ Della held up a ‘Buttons’ costume from Cinderella. Stu wasn’t too sure. ‘It’s a bit… pantomime.’
Della blinked heavily. ‘Ryan said dress ‘em like in a fairy-tale.’ Stu didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. ‘The story is set in a fishing village. Think chunky jumpers. Benny from Crossroads.’
‘No. Ryan definitely said fairy-tale to me. What about this for the lead female?’ said Della, draping a Cinderella ball gown dress over her forearm. Palms outward, Stu struggled to convey his dismay. Distracted, Della replaced the dress and stepped closer. Too close for Stu’s comfort. He breathed shallowly as Della took his hands. ‘Soft hands. Never held a shovel, have you?’
Stu pulled his hand away. Della frowned humorously, somewhat startled at Stu’s response.
‘Calm yourself, love. I’m a fortune teller. When I’m not dressing French Maids.’ Della took his hand again, probing with her index finger. It tickled, but Stu stood frozen. Her smile faded, rejecting his hand as if it would burn.
An alarming clatter echoed in the warehouse, putting Della immediately on edge.
‘It’s him. He’s here.’
Stu’s dry throat failed to raise the next question, even though he knew the answer. He knew who. ‘Have you met ‘Bosie’?’ asked Della. ‘I’ll introduce you if you like. He’s a randy old sod. You get used to the bum-pinching after a while.’ Stu declined, explaining he wasn’t into all that spooky guff. ‘Suit yourself,’ said Della. ‘Don’t play too hard to get. Bosie doesn’t like that.’
The conversation was soon wrapped up thanks to Stu’s increasing urge to get out while he could. In a fluster to avoid Bosie’s ghostly advances, Stu tripped through the wicket gate and out onto the pavement. Caught in a current of movement, he bumbled into somebody. Max Monteith.
Max gripped Stu by his throat, pinning him against the warehouse door.
‘Why isn’t my wife the lead?’
Winded, Stu struggled to spit out the words. ‘Vernon’s got a thing for Page Three Stunners. Paula wasn’t wearing a bra when she auditioned. What can I say?’
Max relaxed his grip, shoving Stu back against the warehouse. ‘Fix it. Today.’
That was all Max had to say before he left Stu to figure out whether it was possible to save his own skin and the community play, or whether he would have to emigrate after curtain down.
Big J beat a tribal rhythm on his chest as Little J performed the theme tune to ‘How’, in an attempt to lighten the mood of their fellow performers. Nursing a constricted throat, Stu paced rudely through Kevin’s poor line delivery, making a bee-line for a table covered with snacks.
Stu wedged an entire Wagon Wheel into his mouth, snorting deeply through his nostrils, struggling to breathe as terrified thoughts raced.
Who was going to get him first? The vindictive, jealous husband or the ghost with a fondness for goosing?
Then came the familiar elbow of Nigel Chavis. ‘Can I have the wrapper for my collection?’
Stu stared blankly at Nigel; his mouth propped open with biscuit and chocolate.
Big and Little J poked around the snack table for something unhealthy to graze upon. Salt ‘n shake crisps. Mint cracknels and lolly gobble choc bombs.
‘The leading man is hardly Michael Caine, is he?’ commented Little J to his counterpart, who replied with ‘He’s hardly Michael Mouse.’
Emily and Lena inspected the table of snacks, overhearing the J’s conversation. ‘Come now, boys. We’re all in this together. We don’t eat our own.’
‘If I bit into Kevin,’ said Big J, ‘he’d squeak.’
Lena made eye contact with leading man Kevin Pardon, who had evidently detected the not-so-secret bitching; overcast at the J’s put-downs. ‘Lest we forget,’ said Lena to Big J, ‘your misguided title role of The Diary of Anne Frank. You should have got life for crimes against acting.’
Big J couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘The lead AND the understudy both came down with the trots. Someone had to step in. As an actor, you must be prepared to work without applause.’
‘So that’s your excuse,’ said Lena, winking at Kevin, bolstering his confidence levels.
Deflating Big J’s Zeppelin-sized ego was fun, but little did she know that Kevin had just become a fully paid-up member of the Lena Darrow fan club.
Saturday night. ‘Dr. Who.’ Episode one of City of Death. Scarlioni removed his human face, revealing his true form: A one-eyed, seaweed-covered, oversized mutant brussel sprout head. The camera fixed on The Scaroth’s large freaky eye, as the theme tune wailed. Stu would have been more terrified had he been able to hear a single word.
His brother Jeffrey had returned from the wilderness, having trained a crack squad of killer teenagers to craft a shelter from twigs. His parents gushed as if Jeffrey had defeated the Nazis single-handedly.
Not that Stu required child-blind glorification: Just to know, should he ever achieve anything, a congratulatory handshake would be offered from his Dad. That his Mum would see his achievement as something praise-worthy, even if she didn’t understand it. That would be enough.
Plucking his eyebrows with his fingertips, Stu may have appeared off with the fairies, but he was searching for ways to make it all better. And not just the play. That required some sort of miracle.
Paula, Hugh, Lena and Big J ran through a scene, as the supporting cast observed intently. Paula broke character, frustrated. Ryan clasped his temple. ‘O Playwright!’
A few days into rehearsal, Ryan had resorted to calling Stu “Playwright”; intended as a put-down. Stu trotted over, wondering what now.
‘I don’t understand my character,’ grumbled Paula.
Irritated, Stu gestured for more information. ‘What, the dialogue, what?’
Paula huffed at Stu’s lack of understanding. ‘What I mean, Stuart is she’s not in control of her own destiny. Stuff happens around her and she mysteriously rises to prominence and power through the actions of others. Yet the boy keeps trying to save her. I mean, why does she even love Hamish?’
‘Because he’s the hero,’ said Stu, bluntly.
Hugh rode into Stu’s defence. Any opportunity to put Paula in her place was to be grasped with both hands. ‘Yours is not to question. You will deliver the text exactly to the letter.’
On the spot, Stu rummaged for a clever response. The truth was he could barely recall what the play was about.
'Well, that’s the point of the play. It’s about power. Sometimes it is given without the recipient truly deserving it. There may be good intentions, a desire to make things better… but without the necessary talent, the power becomes redundant. Your character finds themselves in a position of political potential, but instead the villagers vote for a goat to be in charge.’
Paula chewed over Stu’s words. ‘A woman works hard to rise through the ranks and become powerful, but you’re suggesting she’s no better than a farmyard animal?’
There was no denying Paula’s astute perception. None of this had occurred to Stu at the time of rushing through the writing process. He knew there was a deeper motivation to writing this character. Yet, at that moment in time, he couldn’t remember what it was.
‘Oh knock it off with all that women’s lib claptrap. You were quick enough to whip your top off for Page 3 when they came knocking,’ sneered Hugh.
‘Jealous they didn’t ask you?’ retorted Paula. Hugh draped an over-friendly arm around Stu’s shoulder. ‘Scribe. Would it really be detrimental to the storyline if we shot her character?’
Wriggling free to escape the sniping, Stu hurried to Lena for support. ‘Paula says the play is sexist.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ blinked Lena, blank-faced. ‘I thought that was part of the joke?’
‘Do you think we should change it?’ fretted Stu. ‘It’s your play, maestro,’ shrugged Lena.
‘What if people hate me for it?’
‘They either like you or they don't,’ surmised Lena. ‘Nothing you can about it.’ Clawing his face, Stu shrunk into a crouched position. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I just want to do the right thing.’ Stu gazed up at Lena from his pit of despair. All she could offer was a wry smile of pity.
‘The only way to please them is by being exceptional.’
Thankfully, the condemned man’s final wish was granted: A day of brushing up the play’s dialogue at Lena’s house. Arriving on foot outside, Stu saw Christopher Gothard’s car bumped up on the kerb. Even his parking irked Stu. It took all of his willpower not to key the bloody thing.
Christopher sat cross-legged and arms wide on the sofa like a Bond villain reclining in his lair. He had even commandeered the record Player: M’s Pop Music. Almost as annoying as Gothard. Lena sat in the floor space between them, beaming with eagerness. ‘Ryan asked Chris to come up with some songs for the show.’ This was news to Stu. Ryan was a dead man.
‘Chris has a way with words,’ said Lena. ‘His songs are very thought-provoking.’
Bowel-provoking. And why was she referring to him as “Chris”? To Stu, he was Gothard and always would be. And the merest thought of collaborating with Gothard made Stu’s bile rise. ‘Don’t tell me: There are dance sequences too?’
‘Oh. You know about that?’ said Lena with genuine surprise. Before Stu’s soul could vacate its host, Christopher said something that offered some hope. ‘I’ve told Ryan that I don’t have time to create brand new songs.’
‘Don’t do it then,’ said Stu with urgency.
‘But I’m happy to work some of my old songs into the musical,’ smiled Gothard.
Emily served dinner: soggy asparagus wrapped in some sort of viciously salty ham. At the dinner table, the conversation moved onto Christopher’s extensive music back catalogue. With core themes of the now-all-singing-all-dancing play established, Christopher suggested songs from an EP created two years previously, which Stu recalled with increasing horror.
A collection of well-intentioned yet obliviously racist songs which Christopher believed would counter-act the typical Falking Hill mindset: Fight racism with unwitting racism. Stu chuckled to himself as he recalled Christopher’s sincere dedication to his worthy project: ‘Having strawberry blonde hair, I know the salted wound of prejudice.’ Stu sniggered to himself, muttering out loud. “Strawberry blonde”. Lena and Christopher questioned Stu’s outburst with raised eyebrows. Stu waved an unbothered hand as an instruction to forget it.
Later, Christopher played a few of the folksy numbers. Lena stifled her amused horror, looking to Stu for help. The frozen sneer on Stu’s mug said it all. With such titles as ‘It’s okay, they’re here to work’, Christopher’s songs of racial harmony were a checklist of wrong opinions about ethnic minorities. With a final mellow strum of his guitar, Christopher was ready for feedback.
‘I can make them more up-tempo, seeing how the play is a comedy.’
‘It’s not. It is a serious drama,’ Stu pointed out.
Christopher disagreed. ‘If I don’t think it’s a comedy, nobody else will. The dialogue will need altering to fit in with the meaning of my songs.’
Stu laughed through gritted teeth. ‘Haha, no they bloody won’t.’
Sensing Stu’s temper, Lena made the suggestion of going out for a drink and running through the play. Stu agreed as he was in dire need of a stiff drink.
‘I meant… me and Christopher,’ said Lena.
Stu half-laughed. ‘Our spokesperson for race relations?’ Lena apologised to Christopher for Stu’s attitude. ‘Stu is feeling sensitive about his play.’
Lena grabbed her coat, signalling for Christopher to follow. Christopher patted Stu sympathetically on his shoulder before leaving. Stu frantically brushed off the lingering touch of Christopher Gothard (which, coincidentally, was the name of Gothard’s EP).
Bounding off the 103, Stu stomped up Greening Green’s high street, cutting down the side alley of The Olde Chap alehouse to the sounds of a pub rock band. Muffled, booming drums brought a song to a close with an elongated cliché of drum rolls and increasingly slowing cymbal crashes.
Outside the theatre, Stu peered up at the row of glowing windows. From the safety of darkness, suspicions were confirmed: Lena and Christopher; sat in cosy conversation.
“BELLBOY!”
Alone in a crowded cinema, Stu didn’t watch Quadrophenia so much as feel it. The world around him was a lie. Stu felt a self-projected compulsion to hop on the back of Jimmy’s stolen scooter and ride for Beachy Head in that moment of cinematic perfection.
All the things Stu thought he wanted in life had presented themselves, but his spirit pined for his old life. Playing pool and chatting rubbish with Alan. The safety of his naïve bubble. But everything around him was moving on. All Stu could do was kick and scream as the tide swept him away.
Avoid rehearsals, avoid trouble. Stu’s plan worked too well. His heart may have been protected, but his paranoia ran rampant. Nobody called. He wasn’t prepared to settle for being disposable.
The performance night of the 31st of October was bearing down. The in-the-trenches, war-time spirit had worn down to lethargy, complacency and general moaning. Christopher revelled in his role as the accompanist; running the tone-deaf chorus through the big numbers.
Paula tossed her script aside at any given moment, spitting complaints about “the words”.
Hugh had gone AWOL due to “paid professional work”. Nigel became Hugh’s stand-in, but his inability to deliver bleating on cue drove Ryan up the wall. His frothing rage of “Nigel! Get it right or don’t bother at all!” had become a catchphrase. Every time, Nigel’s face flared up with shame.
Lingering unnoticed, Stu borrowed the script out of Nigel’s hand, scanning through the new draft. All subtlety had flown. In its place were gags about sexual harassment and crude retorts.
Mortified, Stu thundered up to the nearest sympathetic ear: Gary.
‘Do you know they’re rewriting my play?’ said Stu.
Gary’s response was distinctly lacking in commiseration: ‘You hum it, son…’
When the rehearsal broke for wees ‘n teas, Stu confronted Ryan in the corridor. ‘Really, I think you’re overreacting,’ said Ryan, sending Stu into an animated rage as he recited the script.
‘Doctor, I need something for this rash on my chest. Doctor: I’ll need to take a closer look The Doctor removes his trousers. What has this got to do with anything? A little over-ripe, no?’
‘Not my doing. All Paula’s idea. It is what it is,’ said Ryan with a dismissive flip of his wrist.
‘It’s not what it isn’t,’ glared Stu. ‘My play is now a farce packed with bums and boobs jokes.’
‘Your play? It’s our play. Com-mun-ity,’ reminded Ryan, slapping Stu’s cheek a little too hard. Ryan sauntered back to the rehearsal room as Stu yelled out.
‘And since when was my play a bloody musical?’
Ryan kept walking, replying without a backwards glance. ‘It’s a musical, by the way!’
Wedging custard creams into his mouth, Stu scoped out the action in the rehearsal room with a sniper’s eye. There was a strong whiff of romantic air detectable through bodily odours. Gary and Emily's one-sided flirting towards Melody and Kevin respectively. Lingering shoulder massages. The ears of the room, Stu collected useless soundbites like Dean bragging to Gary about his job as a cooper at Falking Hill Brewery, explaining his muscular physique.
Occasionally, Stu’s anonymity struck gold, eavesdropping on leading man Kevin asking Big J for advice on how to win the heart of Lena Darrow. ‘Wait ‘til the show’s over,’ said Big J. ‘As soon as the curtain drops, so do the knickers. Trust me.’
With every rehearsal, Kevin’s fawning over Lena increased. It started small: The offer of sweets. Repetitive offers of a lift home, even though Kevin knew Lena owned a car. Kevin would be fetching Lena golden goose eggs by the end of the show. Then came a tell-tale gesture: Kevin slid a reassuring arm around Lena. Stu watched, waiting for Lena to shrug him off. She didn’t.
The sight of Tony Nedwell rocking back and forth on the steps of the theatre reminded Stu that there was always someone else having a much worse time. The pain of losing Paula, numbed by alcohol, had ruined his status in the community.
Aware of Stu’s presence, Tony spoke at him. ‘I just want to know why. Did Paula ever love me?’
Tony wanted honesty, and Stu gave him both barrels. ‘No, I don’t think she did.’
‘People change,’ Tony smiled through glistening eyes, ‘People do change. Only they don’t always take you with them.’
Stu didn’t know Paula well enough to mediate. Her aggressive edge made him uncomfortable as if she was always up for a fight at the drop of a hat. He recalled Paula’s boasting about a recent appearance on Top of the Pops. Unavoidable in a small cluster of “Hello Mums”, Paula stood in a white t-shirt three sizes too small, next to the DJ Presenter who had his hand on her backside. Paula was all smiles to the camera until the DJ finished his intro. As the camera pulled away, Paula’s smile dropped like a cartoon anvil.
Having it and flaunting it never used to bother Paula. Yet since landing the lead in the play, Paula awakened to how the world viewed her. The bleached hair. The heavy make-up. A will to prove herself as more than a face and body surged. No longer would she hang off some man’s arm.
She was as mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.
Heads-You-Win hairdressing Salon was an assault on the ears. The pumping beat of The Gibson Brothers’ Que Sera Mi Vida competed with a chorus line of hairdryers and shouty conversations. Jittering on a padded bench, Stu watched Paula chatting to a middle-aged customer, all chewing gum smile and sarcastic tone. ‘Don’t you look lovely, eh? Much better, innit, eh… Yeah…’
The customer vacated the chair, paying the moody work experience girl at the counter. Paula called out in her inimitable gobby manner. ‘Who’s next?’ Stu raised a hand, curdling Paula’s glow. Stone-faced, she nodded at the empty chair for Stu to sit.
‘What do you want?’ said Paula with utter disdain.
‘Just a little off the back…’ replied Stu, failing to pick up on her tone. Paula began to forcefully shave a line in the back of Stu’s shaggy hair, occasionally hurting him.
Attempting to break the cold silence, Stu adopted a chirpy approach. ‘Any plans for the weekend?’
‘Nope,’ said Paula, ‘and I don’t care if you’ve got any either.’ She switched off the clippers, staring at Stu in the mirror. ‘What, you think cos we’re doing a show together that I owe you a free haircut?’
Stu frowned innocently. ‘No, not at all.’ Paula continued, giving Stu time to re-evaluate his method. ‘I… I saw Tony the other night. Outside the theatre.’
‘And? He knows he’s not supposed to be anywhere near me,’ said Paula.
‘He seemed in a bad way.’
‘How’s that my problem?’
Infuriated at Paula’s lack of empathy, Stu mouthed off. ‘Served his purpose, has he?’
How Stu wished he hadn’t said that out loud. Paula drove a single furrow down the centre of Stu’s hair, switching off the clippers. Paula spun the chair around, whipping off the protective cape velcroed around Stu’s neck.
‘All done.’ Stu saw his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. ‘But… you’ve only…’
Paula spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Piss. Off.’
The 365 home was half an hour of pointing, laughing and commentary from total strangers on Stu’s anti-Mohawk haircut. He then had to fend off “hilarious banter” from his local barber.
Ten minutes later, Stu stepped out with his new haircut: a number two skinhead. It was the only way to deal with Paula’s psychotic stripe that she had ploughed through his shaggy hair.
Stu formulated an explanation to his family, who notoriously blew gaskets over trivial stuff like having to buy Sunblest bread because Hovis had sold out.
Surprisingly, they bought Stu’s bare-faced lie. They had no choice. He simply told them he wanted to look like Jeffrey because he admired him so much.
Jeffrey got as far as saying ‘Blimey, Charlie. Did you get done over by the Hair Bear Bunch?’ before catching his own militarised pate in the hall mirror.
At the next rehearsal, Stu arrived to a chorus of “Here comes Bod!” and comedic remarks about checking his scalp for a 666. The ribbing was eventually overshadowed by Hugh’s complacency with the production. Ryan threw down his script, bringing the scene to an abrupt end.
‘Stop! Hugh. What in the name of Alberto Frog’s lime-flavoured milkshake are you doing?’
‘Hitting marks and delivering lines,’ said Hugh with a sniff and a standoffish posture. Reg supported his director’s complaint. ‘Maybe you should try acting, dear boy.’
Paula muttered an amused aside for her own enjoyment, provoking Hugh’s rage. ‘And we all know what your role is here, don’t we? Something for the Dads to stare at. No bra. No brain.’
‘Hugh. You’re fired.’
Hugh spat his resentment. ‘Pfft. I’m carrying this production.’
‘You’re playing a goat,’ said Reg, ‘with precious little effort, I might add. Dedication’s what you need.’
‘How dare you, you leathery old windbag!’ exclaimed Hugh. ‘I always try to get inside the character.’
‘And the girls’ dressing room,’ chirped Paula.
Hugh grabbed his trench coat, having the final word with Paula. ‘Saw your old boyfriend lurking around outside. The one you left for me.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Paula, inspecting her nails with little interest in what Hugh had to say.
Hugh snatched his coat, landing the final word. ‘Maybe you should get back with him. You stink of Tramp and he resembles one.’ Stifled smirks spread across the cast as Hugh whipped a thunderous exit, slamming the door behind him.
Standing at the back of the theatre auditorium, Paula breathed in the sight of the stage. Curtain down, ghost-light on. She stepped down, hands gliding softly over the seats. Up on the apron, her senses were aroused by the buzz of imagining opening night. She glided to centre stage. Eyes closed, she inhaled the sweetly-perfumed dream.
The draft of a rising curtain. Stage lights lit up. Paula spun to find the stage now visible behind her. The stillness unnerved her. Mustering some pluck; she curtsied to her invisible audience.
Somewhere, switches flicked. The auditorium lights shut off.
Uncertain, Paula peered into the darkness. Treading upstage, she froze at a clunking sound from the wings. Behind her, the curtain came down. She hurried to the descending curtain, her exasperation increasing as she brushed handfuls aside, fighting through the heavy fabric.
Paula lifted a flap of the curtain to find the stage fire curtain was down. There was no exit. Anger overriding her fear, Paula paced to the wings, intent on finding the culprit.
The stage lights shut off, plunging Paula into a pitch-black void. She’d had enough by now.
‘Look, stop pissing about will ya?’
Her hollering echoed as she felt her way through the blackness. She touched something, yelping with surprise.
‘Hugh? I’ll wring your bleedin’ neck…’ She thought twice. ‘Tony? Tony is that you?’ Paula thought again. ‘Who’s there? B…Bosie? Is that you?’
Paula moved fitfully along the crossover corridor behind the stage. The touch of her fingertips ran along rough exposed brickwork, blindly following the length of the wall.
A door ahead slammed open. Daylight blazed into the narrow passage, dazzling Paula.
Shielding her eyes, she could make out a silhouetted figure, who stood in the open doorway.
The intimidating sight was enough to stop Paula in her tracks. She peered ahead, unsure of what she was seeing.
The figure bowled towards her with fierce intent. The door closed slowly closed behind the figure; daylight fading with it.
Something terrible was heading straight for her. Paula knew. She just knew.
Paula stumbled backwards into a blind run, screaming for help. Disorientated in the dark, Paula bounced off the walls, tumbling to the cold concrete floor.
Desperately feeling her way through the dark, Paula kicked her legs in a mad crawl, becoming paralysed in a cowering position as a torch shone on her bloodied face.
There was no time to scream.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022