How many more rooms could there be? Jim bit his lip as he stepped through the doorway, afraid he would scream and alert the museum’s curator. But the next room was empty. Through the doorway on the far side, a faint light was gleaming. He paused, allowing himself one more moment of ritual, raised the knife and brushed his lips against its twisted blade. The torch battery was nearly dead: he pressed hard on the switch with his left thumb, trying to hold on to his vision.
This was the only room with plastered walls. There was even a curtain where there could not be any window. On a black leather sofa with red cushions, Baxter was lying asleep. He was dressed but looked almost child-like, at peace with the world. He had indeed lost some weight. Trying not to breathe, Jim stepped forward. He pressed the point of the knife into the soft hollow of Baxter’s throat, then tapped on the sleeper’s arm to wake him up.
Baxter’s eyes opened and he looked up at Jim, then past him, as the intruder felt hands grip his arms from behind and twist hard. A boot came down inside his calf - a dead leg, they’d called it in his schooldays - and he fell to his knees, shuddering with pain. Baxter looked down at him and tapped his watch twice, then turned away as the beating started.
<
~ * ~
BRIAN LUMLEY
The Man Who Photographed Beardsley
GENTLEMEN, MY VERY own darling boys in blue. If, as you seem so determined to avow, there has been about my work an element of the grotesque and macabre (“criminal” I simply refuse to admit), and if, in order to achieve the perfection of ultimate realism, I have indeed allowed myself to become a “fanatic” and my art an “obsession” ...Why! Is it any wonder? I find in these things, in your assertions, nothing to excite any amazement or stupefaction. Nothing, that is, other than the natural astonishment and fascination of my subject matter.
And yet, in his own day, Beardsley’s work excited just such -yes, horror! “His own day!” An inadequate cliche, that. For of course he had no “day”; his work is as fresh and inspiring now -and possibly more so, as witness the constant contemporary cannibalization of his style and plagiarism of his techniques - as when first he put ink to paper. His art exists in a time-defying limbo of virtuosity which will parallel, I am sure, the very deathlessness of Tutankhamun as glimpsed in the gold of his funerary mask.
Times change, my dears! Does Aubrey Vincent Beardsley’s art excite any such powerfully outraged emotions now? Except in the most naive circles, it does not! Admiration, yes - delight and fascination, of course - but disgust, revulsion ... horror? No. Nor, I put it to you, will my art fifty years hence. No, certainly not in the finished, perfect article; neither in that nor in the contemplation of its controversial construction. I would think it likely that there will be controversy; but in the end, though my name be vilified initially, I will be exonerated through my art itself. Yes, in the end my art must win.
I digress? My words are irrelevant? My apologies, my dears, it is the genius in me. Genius, like truth, will out.
I started, in what now seems a mundane manner, void of any airy aspiration or ambition other than that of exercising my art to the best of my ability, by selling pornographic photographs to the men’s magazines. Now I say “pornographic”, and yet even the most permissive of my pictures - so erotic as to shock even, well, Beardsley himself - were executed with a finesse such as to abnegate any prohibitive reactions from my publishers, and they were undeniably the delight of my public.
Came the time when I could afford to be more choosy in my work, when I commanded the attention of all the first-line publishers in the field, and then I would accept only the choicest contracts. Eventually I was sufficiently established to quit working to order completely, and then I was able to give more time and energy to my own projects. To my delight my new photographic experiments went down well, better in fact than even the best of my previous works. Pornography became a thing of the past as I grew ever more fascinated with the exotic, the weird, the outré.
Following the Beardsley Project I had plans for Hieronymus Bosch, but—
Pardon? I must try not to wander? The Beardsley Project...? Once more I apologize. Well, gentlemen, it came about like this: I had long been disillusioned with colour. Colours annoyed me. Without motion they somehow looked untrue, and they certainly did nothing to enhance the sombre quality of my more sepulchral pieces. Oh, the greens and purples were all right, when I could get just the right lighting effects - Rhine Castles and Infernal Caverns and so on - but as for the rest of the spectrum, I couldn’t give a damn! And yet Beardsley had ignored colour without sacrificing an iota of feeling, in perfect perspective, with the result that his black-and-whites are the wonders of intricate design that they are. But if I was to take a lead from Beardsley in tone, why not in texture? Why not in my actual material?
It was then that I began to photograph Beardsley.
At first there was no pattern in my mind, no plot as to the development of my theme; I simply photographed him the way I found him. My “Venus between Terminal Gods” became an instant success, as was “The Billet-Doux”; indeed in the latter picture I actually beat A.V. at his own game! The absolute intricacy of my work was a wonder to behold. The delicate frills and ribbons of her negligee, the Art Nouveau of the headboard, the perfect youthful beauty of the girl herself...
Ah, but “The Barge” was my piece de resistance. Oh, I was already well on the road towards that type of success I craved, but “The Barge” made me. It took me six days to set the thing up, to get the studio balcony absolutely right, to have the costumes perfected and find the perfectly skeletal gent (profile) to match the young woman (the girl from “The Billet-Doux”) with the great fan. And the wigs, my dears, you’d never believe the trouble I—
But there ... I mustn’t go on, must I?
That was when Nigel Naith of Fancy asked me for a series. A complete series, pre-paid and entirely in my own time, and I literally had carte blanche. The one stipulation Nigel did make - and it made me really furious - was that there should be colour. Well...!
I determined to do the entire series on Beardsley the Weird, commencing with “Alberich”! The trouble I had finding just the right shape of ugly, shrunken dwarf! I went on to “Don Juan, Sganarelle and the Beggar” - and it must be immediately apparent that my difficulty in obtaining a decent beggar was enormous. In the end, to obtain a skull of such loathly proportions and contours, I turned to a local mental institution with the tale that I was preparing a photographic documentary of the unfortunate inmates of such refuges.
Fortunately the custodians of the place did not know my work; eventually I was allowed to borrow one Stanley, who was allegedly quite servile, for my purpose. And he was absolutely ideal - except that he didn’t like having to dress in rags. I had to beat him, and it was necessary to dub the two normal models in for they simply refused to pose with him; and moreover he bit me, but in the end I had my picture.
Pardon? Well, I know I’m taking my time, sweetheart, but it’s my story, isn’t it?
Yes ... Well, the first real difficulty came when I was working on the last picture of the set. Yes, that picture. “The Dancer’s Reward”. Now the costumery and props were fairly easy - even that wafer-thin, paint-palette table-top, with its single supporting hairy leg - but I knew that the central piece, the head, was going to give me problems. Ah, that head!
And so I looked around for a model. He or she - I’m not fussy, my darlings - would have to have long black hair, that much was obvious. And I would like, too, someone of a naturally pale complexion ... Naturally.
Eventually I found him, a young drop-out from up north; long black hair, pale complexion, rather gaunt; he was the one, yes. And he was short of money, which of course was important. I managed to get hold of him on his first day in town, before he made any friends, which was also important. That first night he stayed at my place, but it worked out he wasn’t my type, which was just as well in the circumstances. I mean, wel
l, I couldn’t afford to get emotional about him, now could I?
The next morning, bright and early, we were up and about; I took him straight downstairs to the studio, unlocked the door and let him in. Then I lit the joss sticks, sat him down in a studio chair and went out to get the morning milk from the doorstep. That was so I could make us both a cup of coffee right there in the studio. Coffee steadies my nerves, you know ...?
When I got back in he was complaining about the smell. Well, of course, that put me on my guard. I told him I liked the studio to smell sweet, you know, and pointed out all the air fresheners I had about the place and the sprays I used. And I explained away the joss sticks by telling him that the smell of incense gave the place the right sort of atmosphere. He had me a bit worried, though, when he asked me what I kept in the back room. I mean, I just couldn’t tell him, now could I?
Anyway, I set up a three-minute timed exposure on my studio camera and then kept one eye on my watch. While I was waiting I took a few dummy shots of the lad against various backdrops: getting him in the mood, you know? Then I had him lean over the work-bench with his arms wide apart, staring straight ahead. He was getting fifteen a shot - he thought - and so he was willing to oblige; you might even say overjoyed. I took a few more dummy shots from the front, then moved round to the side.
So there we were: me clicking away with my little camera, and no film in it and all, and him all stretched out over the workbench staring ahead.
“That’s it!” I kept saying, and “Just look in front there”, and “Money for old rope!” Stuff like that. And click, click, click with the empty camera. And I moved behind him and got the cleaver from behind the curtains, and his eyes had just started to swivel round when—
I got him first time, and clean as a whistle, which was just as well for I didn’t want to mess the neck up. Believe me, it was quick. You’ve seen the groove in the bench? And still a full minute to go.
On with my wig, with all its tight little ringlets; and the costume, all pinned up just so. Then over to the table with its hairy leg and ornate band. The blood slopping; the head tilted back just so; my left hand held thus and my right holding his forelock; the slippers in exactly the right position. And, my dears, his mouth fell open of its own accord!
Beautiful...!
And that was when I realized that in my excitement I had made a dreadful mistake. Such a silly little thing really: when I brought the milk in I forgot to lock the outside door. The studio door, too, for I’d been distracted by the lad’s complaints about the smell. And that, of course, was all it took to undo me.
It was the new postman: a nosy-parker, just like the old one. In through the studio door he came, waving a pink envelope that could only contain a letter from Nigel Naith; and when he saw what lay across the work-bench! And what I had in my hand—
I couldn’t let him get away, now could I, my dears? No, of course not.
But he did get away - he did! Oh, I managed to grab the cleaver all right, before he’d even moved. I mean he was still standing there all gasping and white, you know? But damn me if that costume of mine didn’t let me down! Halfway across the room I tripped on the thing and went over like a felled oak; at which the postman seemed to come to life again, let out one terrific scream and ran for it.
And so there was nothing left for me to do but read Nigel’s letter while I waited for you dears to come. Poor Nigel: when was I going to send him the goodies? He wanted to know! Ah, but there’ll be no more of my work in Fancy, I fear.
What’s that, my love? The back room? Yes, yes, of course you’re right. The joss sticks? Yes, of course, my dear. And the - thing - on the bed? Ah, but now, I really must protest. That was a model of mine! “Thing”, indeed!
Yes, yes, a model, something else I was working on. The theme? Why, “Edgar Allan Poe’s Illustrators”, my darling. Harry Clarke was the artist, and—
You do? Why, you clever boy! Yes, of course it was “Valdemar”, and—
Who was he? Why, the old postman, who else! The first one, yes. Of course he still had another week or so to go to reach a proper state of—
You’ve got all you wanted? Well, anything to help the law, I always say. But isn’t it a shame about Nigel - I mean about him paying me in advance and all?
Tell me: is the Police Gazette a glossy?
<
~ * ~
LISA MORTON
Hollywood Hannah
YOU’LL BE LUCKY to survive this movie,” the producer told me two weeks before the end of shooting.
She feigned a joking tone, but I wasn’t laughing. Even then, I knew Hannah Ward might literally be the death of me.
~ * ~
Two months ago (God, was it really only two months ago?) I was a recent film-school grad about to take a job as a waitress when a friend told me about an internship program with Hannah Ward - or “Hollywood Hannah”, as the industry trades liked to call her. She was the most famous female producer in Hollywood, and at fifty-something she hadn’t lost any of her fire. After growing up in a rich Hollywood home (her father had also been a producer), she’d produced her first film at twenty-three - my age, in other words.
“She’s supposed to be a bitch on wheels,” my friend Allison had told me, “but you’d learn a lot from her.”
I applied for the internship, expecting nothing ... but I managed to score an interview. I showed up at her West LA production company offices on a Tuesday morning and was taken into a small nondescript boardroom, where I expected to meet with an assistant or secretary.
I was nervous; at heart, I was still a girl from a Midwestern small town who loved movies, and this was my first real job interview (even though the internship was unpaid). I plucked at my skirt and scanned my (bleak) resume again, then jumped when the door opened - and I nearly choked when I realized the person entering the room and taking a chair across from me was Hannah Ward herself.
She was still close to beautiful (she’d started as an actress, but had given it up early), with thick strawberry-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes that had frozen stronger men and women than me, but I did my best to smile and look perky as she stared me down. After a few seconds, she asked me, “So, Jennifer - why do you want this job?”
I had prepared an answer for this, but it wilted under that crystalline scrutiny, and I blurted out, “School taught me how the business is supposed to work, but now I need to learn how it really works. And I want to learn from the best.”
I saw a glimmer of amusement at the corners of her mouth (still unlined, and I thought it was natural, not the work of an expensive surgeon), and she leaned forward then, taking on a posture mat was strangely masculine - elbows on knees and fingers curled into fists. “Why am I the best?”
I’d done my homework before the meeting, and now was my chance to show off. “In 1996, you won a fight with the studio head over control of Meeting Mike, and you were right, because the movie went on to gross $240 million domestically and $350 world-wide. In 2003, you turned down a chance to run Twentieth Century Fox and opened your own production company, and you were right again, because your first film under your own banner, The Truth of It All, won the Academy Award for Best Picture. Your first foray into television, the HBO series Dreamers, won the Emmy for Best Dramatic Mini-series. And you once punched out a junior development executive at Fox.”
She nodded, then leaned back, never taking her eyes off me. “Do you know what one of my secrets to success is? I always work straight from the gut. And my gut is telling me to forget the other thirty-seven applicants I’ve already interviewed for this program and go with you.”
Hannah Ward stood up, smiled, and stuck her hand out. “Welcome to my team.”
“Stunned” would have been an understatement. I’m sure I gaped for a moment, then leaped to my feet and gave her my hand.
She crushed it. I don’t mean that in the friendly bear-hug kind of way, or that she gave it an intense but fleeting
squeeze. No - she had large, powerful hands, and she wrapped her fingers around mine and applied such pressure that I thought bones were about to snap. I struggled to keep smiling, to not wince or yank my hand back ... or gasp in relief when she finally let go.
“This is going to be very good for you, I think,” she said, before turning and leaving the room.
When the door closed behind her, I waggled my fingers to make sure they weren’t broken. I could already see that working for Hannah Ward was going to keep me on my toes ...
... provided she didn’t smash them into pulp first.
~ * ~
She had just started pre-production on a new small-budget movie called The Lowdown; it was a crime thriller, written and directed by a young Englishman named Ned Tierney who’d won the Audience Award (Dramatic) at Sundance last year. He was an intense fellow who was plainly somewhat intimidated by Hollywood Hannah, but I thought perhaps that would bode well for me as her intern.
Psychomania: Killer Stories Page 17
