Bleeding London

by Geoff Nicholson

  A FUNNY FEELING INSIDE OF ME

  With a wide, innocent, slapped-on smile across his otherwise vacant face, Mick rang the doorbell belonging to Justin Carr. He stood outside the white mews house, one of a dozen or so clustered together in a safe, still Kensington enclave. There were a number of untidily parked cars along the mews, a woman was out washing a green Peugeot and two girls were visible at desks in one of the properties that had been converted into an office, but the street was as quiet and calm as any spot in London.

  Mick looked up at the first-floor windows of Carr’s house. The curtains were open and the overhead light was on to keep away the dark afternoon. Mick rang the bell again. It was a long time before he heard heavy feet on the stairs, descending to the hall, and when the front door was opened, it was thrown wide with uncoordinated abandon, with no hint of the retiring film star.

  Mick didn’t immediately recognize the actor in the doorway despite having watched so many of his videos. Justin Carr stood there wearing a white bathrobe, his feet in heavy black workboots. His hair was short but tangled, his face unshaven and unwashed. It was hard to tell whether he was drunk or hungover, but something about him wasn’t quite steady. He looked fatter than on screen, his face less angular, less defined, less itself. He appeared shorter too, but Mick had expected that.

  ‘Yeah?’ Carr said, expressing neither surprise nor interest nor welcome, his voice very different from the warm, trained tones he used professionally.

  ‘Mr Carr, Justin,’ Mick said enthusiastically. ‘I’m a great fan!’

  Carr rolled his eyes in theatrical disbelief, and said under his breath, ‘Thanks.’ His hand was on the edge of the door ready to close it briskly, but Mick said, ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour?’ and his foot was in the door before Carr could take any further evasive action.

  ‘That all depends,’ Carr said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mick, the smile still on his face, but now with an additional look of soft, supplicating humility. ‘I only want an autograph.’

  ‘You have a pen, I suppose.’

  Mick did. He held out a pen and a video cassette of Roo. The cover showed an illustration of Carr clutching and kissing a blonde, basque-clad actress in a scene that, as far as Mick remembered, didn’t appear in the finished movie. Carr took them and said, ‘This won’t write on plastic,’ and he pulled out the insert card and autographed that, scrawling across the actress’s bare shoulder. There was little space for a signature and the autograph spilled over on to the dark colours of the rest of the design where it became invisible. Mick looked on disappointedly.

  ‘Maybe if you signed the other side, the blank side of the card,’ he said.

  Disobligingly Carr” turned the card over, signed it, said, ‘OK,’ and handed it back.

  ‘Much better,’ Mick agreed.

  ‘Gotta go now. Got a bath running,’ said Carr.

  Mick’s foot remained in the door, and although the smile stayed on his face Carr was now aware of the threatening bulk and presence of his visitor.

  ‘You don’t mind signing autographs?’ Mick asked.

  ‘It’s very flattering,’ Carr replied unconvincingly.

  ‘You do it often?’

  ‘Not in circumstances quite like these, no.’

  ‘You get a lot of fans chasing after you? Women?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or aspiring actors who want to know the secret of your success?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hey.’ Mick spread his arms in a big open gesture. ‘I’m being a pest, aren’t I? On your doorstep, with you only half dressed.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Carr agreed.

  ‘So why don’t I come in?’

  ‘No,’ Carr said firmly.

  ‘Why not?’

  Carr’s voice changed, became harder, more actorly. ‘I’ve given you my autograph, that’s as much as I owe you. That’s as much as you’re entitled to. I’m going. So if you’d move your foot…’

  He tussled with the door but Mick’s foot resisted the effort.

  ‘He’s given me his autograph, aren’t I the lucky one?’ Mick sneered. The dark clouds rolled across his demeanour for a second, then just as rapidly rolled away, but the sudden darkening was more than enough to disconcert Carr. He continued trying to close the door as Mick asked him, ‘What’s your favourite film? Who’s your favourite leading lady? Who’s your favourite director?’

  As though he was slipping into character, Carr became strong, forthright, heroic. ‘Move your foot,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  It was convincing enough as a piece of acted authority but Mick was unimpressed. Without warning he gave Carr a slap across the face. It wasn’t hard, and it was surprise more than anything else that sent Carr staggering backwards into the hallway. Mick followed him in and closed the door behind them.

  ‘I really do admire some of your work,’ Mick said. ‘But that’s not the point. It’s not why I’m here. I’m not here as a stalker or some crazed fan.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Carr wanted to know. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘An old line. I’ve heard that before somewhere. And I usually reply that I just want to talk.’

  Carr appeared suddenly very frightened and desperate. Mick noticed the actor’s hands were shaking but perhaps they’d been shaking all along, and not only from fear.

  ‘OK,’ Carr said, trying hard to gain a little control, his voice designed to calm both himself and his assailant. ‘Let’s talk. You’d better come up.’

  He scrambled up the stairs ahead of Mick, the boots making him comically awkward, into the body of the house, a single open space that looked cluttered yet uninhabited. The walls were bare and painted white, the floor was completely covered with pale jute matting. There were no chairs, no table, no sofa, but a mattress was laid out under the windows as though someone was camping out there. Black sheets and a duvet spilled across the floor.

  The absence of furniture was countered by a littering of electronic toys: a giant flat-screened television with speakers placed in corners of the room and an integrated stereo system, an electronic keyboard, a fancy telephone with built-in fax machine, a video camera on a tripod, an exercise treadmill, a radio-controlled toy truck. Everything looked pristine and new, expensive and state of the art.

  And strewn amid this hardware were empty bottles – champagne, saki, mineral water – stacks of CDs, overflowing ashtrays, Rizla papers, glossy magazines, telephone directories, a couple of movie scripts. It was an adult playroom. Carr looked as though he had been playing for a long time but whether alone or with others Mick couldn’t tell.

  Carr positioned himself in the middle of the room, accustomed to being centre stage, yet he seemed to be troubled by his lines, and he didn’t quite have the measure of his audience yet. He looked over at all the expensive gear he had accumulated.

  ‘If this is a burglary,’ he said to Mick, ‘you’ve struck very lucky indeed. I hope you’ve got a van.’

  Mick ignored this, then as if something had been preying on his mind he said, ‘I thought you told me you were running a bath.’

  ‘I lied. I was trying to get rid of you.’

  Mick considered the answer, deciding how insulted he ought to feel at having been lied to, and whether he should do something about it. He looked around the room, taking it all in, as though he might be asked to make an inventory, then he said, ‘Give me your wallet.’

  Without a fuss, Carr picked up his jacket which was bundled on the floor, fished out the wallet and handed it over.

  Mick said, ‘I’m going to take your money because if I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to afford to stay in the rathole I’m staying in and then I’d be on the street in a doorway or something, so you can look on this as a way of fighting homelessness. OK?’

  Mick examined the contents of the wallet. There wasn’t much cash in it, but he showed no disappointment. In fact he seemed preoccupied by something else. ‘This is what’s called a mews h
ouse, yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carr.

  ‘Funny word, mews.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Carr.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Originally it meant a cage for hawks, especially when they were mewing, which is another word for moulting. In the fourteenth century the king’s mews were in Charing Cross but Henry VII disposed of his hawks and used them as stables. The usage spread. Most London mews were stables at one time or another.’

  As he spoke he visibly gained confidence and stature. Having lines to say suited him.

  ‘Is that right?’ Mick asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Some research I once had to do for a part I was playing.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Justin, that was very educational,’ Mick said, and he sounded as though he might almost have meant it. ‘I suppose there must be mews houses outside of London but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one. By and large people outside of London wouldn’t be seen dead in converted birdcages, would they?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Carr agreed. He thought it was good to agree.

  Mick said, ‘As an actor I suppose you’ve got to live in London, haven’t you? No point trying to be an actor in Pontefract, I guess.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Is that your real name by the way, Justin Carr?’

  ‘It is, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Sounds very actorish, doesn’t it? And is that your real voice or do you put on that posh accent?’

  ‘It’s real enough.’

  ‘And do you do other accents? Welsh, Geordie, Yorkshire?’

  ‘It’s not my strength, no.’

  ‘But they teach you that stuff at acting school, don’t they? Go on, do a Yorkshire accent, because I’m from Yorkshire, see, and I’ll tell you whether or not it’s any good.’

  ‘I really couldn’t,’ Carr demurred.

  ‘Yeah, you could.’

  ‘I don’t want to. OK?’

  Mick shook his head. No, it wasn’t OK. He slapped Carr in the face again, much, much harder this time, putting his weight behind it. Carr was knocked backwards, and he fell against the television screen before steadying himself.

  ‘Leave the face alone, all right?’ he said plaintively. ‘I’ve got a screen test in a couple of days’ time. It’s rather important.’

  ‘Then be a bit co-operative, why don’t you?’

  ‘All right, I’ll do a Yorkshire accent if you insist. What do you want me to say?’

  Mick shrugged. ‘Anything you like. In your own time.’

  Carr began to recite Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy in a broad Yorkshire accent. Mick let him run through the whole speech. The accent wasn’t bad. It wandered a little, starting out somewhere in the vicinity of Harrogate and ending up nearer Barnsley, but it sounded passable enough. Mick had heard much less convincing accents on television. ‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ was particularly authentic. When Carr had finished, Mick applauded and Carr allowed himself a tiny, self-congratulatory smile.

  ‘The sound of applause, that’s what it’s all about, eh?’ said Mick.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Carr agreed.

  ‘Must be different with film though.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very different with film.’

  Carr had a number of thoughtful things to say about the difference between film and stage acting, and there were a number of anecdotes he used in press interviews to demonstrate his points. Despite the inappropriateness of the situation he was thinking of launching into one of them when Mick said, ‘One thing I’ve always wanted to ask an actor. Let’s say you’re doing a love scene with an actress and you’re in bed together and you’re naked and you’re kissing and all that, well, it stands to reason you’re going to get an erection. But supposing you don’t fancy the actress, and supposing you don’t get an erection, well, doesn’t that really piss her off?’

  Carr looked at him in a kind of wonderment. How could this man seem guileless, so innocent, and yet be so dangerous? The effects of that last slap across the face were still reverberating through Carr’s head. Could Mick really want to discuss acting technique at a time like this, and was he really as stupid as he appeared?

  ‘It doesn’t take much to piss off most actresses,’ Carr said ruefully.

  ‘Yeah, sex scenes,’ said Mick. ‘They must be really tricky. What’s that old theatrical adage? Never be filmed having sex with animals or children.’

  ‘Never work with animals or children.’

  ‘I knew it was something like that.’

  ‘You think you’re a bit of a funny man, don’t you?’ Carr said boldly.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Maybe you should be on the stage.’

  ‘Should I?’

  Carr was feeling braver, a little more in charge.

  ‘Look, I’d be really grateful if you’d just get on with whatever it is you’re here for,’ he said.

  ‘Well, your gratitude really means a lot to me, Justin, but I’m not yet ready to get on with it, and you should probably be grateful that I’m not.’

  He moved towards Carr and gave him a full-blown backhander across the face. Carr jerked sideways as though an electric shock had been sent through him. His jaw snapped shut and his teeth bit into the soft flesh inside his mouth. He tasted blood.

  ‘You see, I don’t care very much about whether or not I spoil your screen test,’ Mick added; then, as though returning to a subject they’d been discussing previously, ‘Of course you’ve never really shown your penis on celluloid, have you, Justin? Have you?’

  ‘No,’ Justin said, pain marbling his voice.

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ Mick said. ‘I mean when it comes to showing your penis on screen it’s no good saying size doesn’t matter, is it? These days you know your audience are bound to have seen some pretty hefty guys. These days everybody’s seen some porn movies, haven’t they? And who the hell can compete with those lads? Not that I’m comparing you with them professionally. You’re an artist. They’re just porn stars.’

  Carr said nothing. He was not going to engage with this new, crazy turn in the conversation.

  ‘You know,’ Mick said, ‘a lot of struggling young actresses find themselves having to make porn films to pay the bills, and these films can come back and really hurt an actress’s career, can’t they? How about you, Justin, have you got some sordid little movie stashed away somewhere that’s going to come back and haunt you?’

  ‘No,’ Carr insisted.

  ‘But then you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Look, please,’ said Carr, no longer at all brave, no longer able to put on much of an act, ‘can’t we stop this absurd performance? Can’t you please just get on with whatever you’re here for.’

  Mick looked around the room again. It might have been that he was looking for something to steal, but his eyes settled on the video camera.

  ‘Does that thing work?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, set it up for me. Let’s make a movie.’

  Carr hesitated just for a moment and Mick took half a step towards him. That was enough to dispel any hesitation. Carr quickly set up the camera so that it was pointing towards Mick, and so that Mick’s high-contrast image, swathed in a blue aura, appeared on the screen of the television. Then Mick noticed there was a cassette in the video machine and that it was recording.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t it be ironic if you managed to get my face on film and then hand it over to the police?’

  He half pushed and half kicked Carr across the room, only stopping when one of the walls blocked his way. Carr fell to the floor and Mick booted him in the stomach a couple of times, driving him into the skirting board, before leaving him to lie motionless. He walked away, grabbed the cassette and waited until Carr was in a state to listen to him again.

  Mick said, ‘You know what they say about some actors, Justin, they say so and so’s such a great performer y
ou’d be happy to hear him recite the London telephone directory. You must have heard people say that. OK, let’s try a little experiment. Let’s see if you’re that kind of performer.’

  He grabbed the collar of the white bathrobe and pulled Carr to his feet. He yanked the robe down and aside, then completely off so that the actor stood naked in front of one of the room’s bare white walls. Mick turned the camera to face Carr. The image on the television screen looked pale and inert, bleached of line and colour, and Carr looked a pathetic, abused creature, poorly framed at its centre. Mick threw a telephone directory at him. He caught it ham-fistedly and desperately turned to the first page.

  ‘Don’t bother with that section,’ Mick said. ‘Forget the dialling information, the codes and all that. Start where the names start. And Justin … do it with feeling.’

  Carr found the appropriate page and was surprised to find that the entries all began with numbers, the Ist Royal Eltham Scout Group, the 5th Putney Sea Scouts, the 15th Wimbledon Scout Group, but he read out the names, addresses and phone numbers as clearly and correctly as he knew how. He’d read perhaps half a dozen entries when Mick screamed at him, ‘No, no, no, Justin. There’s no drama, no light and shade, no passion.’

  Carr said he was sorry and began again, making a determined effort to bring drama, light and shade and passion to his absurd reading, though he was far too frightened to really know what he was doing. Mick let him continue for a while before interrupting again and saying, ‘No, Justin, it’s just not working for me. I tell you what, let’s try the Fs.’

  Carr nodded and awkwardly skimmed through the directory till he found the Fs and began again. He’d read out entries for Faal, Faas, Faasen, Fabb, Fabbicatore and Fabrini before Mick yelled that this was supposed to be the London telephone directory, not the Roman one. He didn’t want to hear all those foreign names. Carr moved on rapidly to Faber but Mick remained unimpressed.

  ‘No, no, Justin, it’s still very, very lifeless. I tell you what, since it’s London, why not read it in a cockney accent? I know you can do accents.’

  Carr nodded agreement and started to read the entries for Fagan. ‘Broader cockney,’ Mick shouted. Carr tried to broaden the accent as he read out a few Faheys. ‘Broader, much broader,’ and Carr exaggerated the accent still further as he read out some Fairbairns and Fairbanks, while Mick shouted, ‘And louder with more projection and more fire. I want to feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.’