Back in the USSA

by Kim Newman

  m

  Back in the USSA

  the huts, and gushed out of the nearby trees. There had been a hell of a storm the night before.

  Noote greeted each guard personally, calling him by the nicknames that had been agreed on.

  "Good morning, Herman. Good morning, Prof. Good morning, Gertie. Lovely weather we're having. Lovely for ducks, that is. "

  The guards grinned humourlessly at the absurd Englishman, hobbling with pride as if he ran the camp.

  Lt was Noote's idea to give all the guards nicknames to rob them of their dignity. It made us less afraid of them. He organised a series of meetings to democratically elect names for all the goons, and to establish routines.

  Noote, of course, was Escape Officer. Early on, he had gathered us all and announced "I'm asking each hut to appoint a representative to the Escape Committee. We also need an adjutant, an intelligence officer and a quartermaster. You re QM, Butler. I've got you marked as a scrounger who can rustle up larcenous miracles. We have to take a crack at getting some men over the wire soon, because the longer we wait the more beaten-up and malnourished we're going to get. We can't be more than five or six days' march from the Demilitarized Zone. With the Lord on our side, we stand a fair chance of making a home run. What we need to do is pool our resources. Think about what kit you have, and about what you know, what skills you have, what information you might possess. It's all for one, here. "

  I wasn't entirely sure about Nootes optimism. This wasn't Colditz, with tunnels and Red Cross parcels and forged papers. But it was true that we had a fair bit of equipment; with a few days' warning that we might be captured, every man had concealed something useful. Razor-blades were sewn into trouser turn-ups; rat-packs, maps and water purification tablets stuffed into jacket-linings; compasses hidden in boot-heels; groundsheets tucked away in waistbands; cigarette lighters, pencils and pocket-knives shoved up where the sun don't shine.

  This morning, the padre was chipper. The storm had knocked down several stretches of wire in the night, and none of the guards were making any effort to repair the perimeter. It was clearly time to put Plan Wooden Horse into action. It involved no subtle deception. Simply put, the plan was to break through the wire and walk to safety. The only clever part was that Noote would spend hours running the remaining prisoners around the village so energetically that a head-count was impossible.

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  The observation tower leaned on three bamboo stilts, battered by the storm. There was no one manning it and the machine gun had fallen down and been carried away.

  Terry and me had drawn lots and were ready for the go. Butler had scrounged the compass out of a broken penknife, and we were kitted out with a hand-drawn map on the back of one of Vintis propaganda-leaflets, a lighter and six cigarettes (for burning off leeches), a groundsheet, two sachets of vegetable soup and four Durexes.

  "A, err, prophylactic appliance in a sock makes a very serviceable water-canteen, " Noote had explained. "In the jungle, you cant risk drinking river or stream water if you can avoid it. Collect rain from the plants. "

  "They never taught us about rubber Johnnies in the Scouts, "said Terry.

  Now, with everything sopping wet, there was a rare surfeit of potable water.

  "The Lord is conspiring, " Noote commented.

  It was nearly time for the break. With double rations in my belly to build my strength, I felt stuffed rather than nervous. Terry was eager, dancing a little like a boxer.

  Butler sat down, exhausted, unsupported.

  I saw Billy Casper wheeling around, arms outstretched and flapping, tweeting scratchily. The kid had been acting like that for a while, turning his head like a bird, squatting everywhere as if perching.

  "Good man, " Noote said, assuming this was a diversion.

  Casper climbed the rickety tower. Guards gathered around, shouting up at the prisoner, their language as birdlike as his screeches. Rifles were raised.

  Terry and me drifted towards the wire.

  Casper spread his arms in an "I can fly" gesture, and the tower collapsed under him. He pulled himself into the air, stretching. For a moment, it was as if he really could fly. He would soar above the village and flap lazily over the jungle, migrating to freedom.

  Gertie the guard shot Billy. He fell to Earth like Icarus, broken.

  Terry was ready to go, but I froze, staring at Billys dead face. He was just a kid. A crazy kid.

  "Come on, kidder, " Terry said.

  I couldn't move. My nerve was shot.

  Captain Vinh marched up. Noote said, "Captain, I wish to protest most strongly at this atrocious... " Vinh swatted the padre to the ground with a backhand. Then, he drew his revolver and shot Noote in the head, twice.

  El

  Back in the USSA

  "There will be no escape this morning, "he announced. "Bob, Terry, bury your dead."

  Vinhs adjutant had brought shovels.

  He couldn't stand up straight, couldn't lie down properly. All he could do was crouch. Any attempt at stretching brought him up against bamboo and barbed wire. Bob had been in this little cage, roasting by day, freezing by night, for half a week. The pain wasn't usually physical apart from the times you got cramps. But it was still agony. He wanted to scream, give Vimto whatever he wanted. Terry was in the other cage, within sight.

  "Times like this I wish you were a woman," said Terry, making calf-eyes through the wire.

  "I wish I was a bloody woman," said Bob, "then I wouldn't bloody be here."

  When every scrap of him wanted to chuck it, Bob would think that if Terry was taking it, so could he. They recited Newcastle United squads from all the years they'd been following the team. They sang songs together, always the filthiest versions.

  "My old man said go to Viet-Nam,

  I said fuck off, bollocks, you re a cunt'."

  In the dead of night when the guards were asleep, Bob and Terry talked about those shovels Vinh had brought for them to bury Casper and the Lieutenant. Vimto had known about Plan Wooden Horse. Someone was being talkative.

  When fear and pain and despair set in, there was always hate. Only their hut had known more than half an hour before that Wooden Horse was a goer.

  They had a traitor among them. Someone had grassed them up.

  If it wasn't Bob or Terry—and, since Bob froze, he was petrified Terry would think it was him—and it couldn't have been poor Billy Casper because he was no longer able to talk, which left only be one man.

  Bob and Terry realised at exactly the same moment who the traitor was.

  "I hate you, Butler," Terry breathed.

  Terry (James Bolam) was being interrogated by Captain Rambo (Raymond Massey), the American Communist agent who ran the camp, issuing orders to the NVA and Vietcong.

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  "Absurd Englishman," Rambo said, in close-up. "You force us to such things. But then, the British have always been the world's fools. You are like children who will never leave the nursery, who still have rules about telling tales, who want to cry but can't be seen with tears on their faces. Oh no, mustn't show emotion, mustn't 'let the side down'."

  White leader ran across the screen, flashing scribbles and blips. Lights came up in the projection room.

  "Ray is spot-on, isn't he?" said Powell, cheerfully. "It was difficult to get a sufficiently eagle-faced Yank. In the old days, Imre and I would have used Barrymore, but poor John's drunk dead."

  Three weeks into filming, these rushes were the first Bob had seen of It Airit Half Hot, Mum. He'd been busy keeping the man from the Lord Chamberlain's Office out of the way. This evening, Puttnam was off at the ICA, watching a fashionable new movie from America, Seven Brides for Seven Comrades. Bob had tried hard to appreciate these left-wing art movies, but still preferred British comedies or Italian police thrillers.

  "Do I have to tell you I never saw any Americans in Indo," said Bob. "Plenty of American guns and shells, but no actual Americans."r />
  "I know, I know," said Powell, "but it's an article of faith among our political masters that the enemy war effort is directed from Debs DC. This is horse-trading. Little Puttman appreciates a splash of transatlantic evil. It's funny: he's supposed to be the guardian of good taste and morality, but he came over all excited yesterday and insisted we shoot a scene where Rambo forces Butler to play Russian Roulette. My Rambo would never do that."

  "Did you have to give Rambo all the best lines? He's obviously your favourite character in the film."

  "Balance, Bob. You have to make your villains a little heroic and your heroes a little villainous. It adds spice."

  Bob felt out-manoeuvred.

  Everyone else in the projection-room left their seats. About half of them clustered around Powell wanting decisions, signatures, orders.

  "Have you eaten?" Powell asked Bob. "Hang around and we'll go to Les Oiseaux. Restaurant near here, run by a chap who used to make films before the War. Kept falling foul of the censors and had to pack it in. I want to talk about the scene we're doing tomorrow, where Terry murders the traitor."

  Bob was aghast. "That's not in the book."

  Powell smiled, eyes hard. "Ah, but it should have been, shouldn't it?"

  m

  Back in the USSA

  Butler cradled the broken Billy Casper in his arms, tears pouring down his cheeks y sobbing.

  "You don't 'ave to do that, " he said to Vinh. "Billy was just a kid. Poor little sod had gone soft in the 'ead. "

  I couldn't see which of the guards shot Stan. He fell backwards, a look of peace on his face.

  Terry and I crawled close.

  I remembered Butler from Walmington-on-Sea, a million years ago. The spivvy lad who could always get fags and sweets, who could recite bus routes like scripture, who laughed like Sid James.

  That lad was dying.

  Terry held his hand. Vimto stood over us, sneering contemptuously.

  "Dont cry, lads, "Butler said, "I'mgoin 'ome. I'm driving the number 42 straight to the Cemetery Gates. "

  He died smiling.

  Butler squirmed against the wall of the hut, tears pouring down his cheeks, sobbing.

  Terry and Bob crawled close.

  Butler didn't try to deny or explain or justify himself. Most likely, he'd sold them out because he couldn't stand the idea of being put back in the cage. Maybe he did it for chocolate or extra ciggies.

  "I never did like cockney cunts," said Terry.

  Butler snivelled.

  Terry held his throat. Bob concentrated his hatred, focusing, willing Terry's fingers to be strong.

  There was a loud crack as Butler's neck snapped. Inside the hut, it sounded like a gunshot.

  "That's done the bastard," Terry said.

  "Ey, look here," muttered Bob. "He's got three packs of tabs and a bar of chocolate stowed in his corner."

  Terry spat in Butler's dead face.

  INT. HUT. NIGHT.

  BUTLER sits, waiting, dead inside. Monsoon rains pour down, rattling in the thatch. The door opens. TERRY and BOB stand in the doorway, water pouring off their coats. BUTLER has been expecting them, he is almost relieved.

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  TERRY You know why we're here, Stan. You know what we have to do.

  BUTLER In your shoes, I'd do the same. I'm just so sorry. For everything.

  BOB watches as TERRY steps towards BUTLER. He doesn't understand the bond between the two men. BUTLER opens his arms in a cruciform pose. Water and moonlight makes his face beautiful. TERRY gently places his hands around BUTLER's neck.

  TERRY (with love) I hate you, Butler.

  BOB shuts his eyes. We hear the rain pouring down. BUTLER doesn't struggle. TERRY lays him out on his cot, at peace. TERRY wipes BUTLER's face.

  BOB

  (v.o.) In the end, everyone wanted Butler dead, himself most of all. The prisoners, the guards, his mates, his enemies. Even the jungle wanted him dead. There'd be no medals for Terry, but he was a hero all the same.

  Through the noise of the storm, we hear helicopters. And music: "Teddy Bears' Picnic".

  "Good eeee-vening," said the restaurateur. He was an immense, jowly man with a deep, rich London voice. "If it isn't Micky Powell!" "Alfred, you old devil," said Powell. "How are you?" Alfred shrugged. "Come and have the best table, chum." In the taxi, Powell had explained that Alfred had also been a director, rising from "quota quickies" at about the time Powell had done. Bob remembered many of the films he had done: The Thirty-Nine Steps, Fanny By Gaslight, The Trouble With Harry, The Third Man. Like Powell, Alfred was blacklisted on the strength of a single picture. Nutter cast the Lithuanian star Larushka Skikne as a young man who keeps the

  B

  Back in the USSA

  mummified corpse of his mother (Margaret Rutherford) in the attic of his boarding-house in Skegness. "They never forgave him for the scene where Sylvia Sims is murdered in the bathing machine," Powell said. Crucified by critics, bishops and politicians, Alfred quit the business.

  "This restaurant is my way of getting my own back," Alfred said as he showed them to their table. "To my certain knowledge, I've killed two MPs and three clergymen, not to mention that dreadful woman. Let me get you a wine list."

  Bob sat down. As befitted a restaurant near a studio, the walls were covered with framed film stills. It took him a while to realise Alfred was in all the pictures, often peeping out from behind the scenery.

  Powell chuckled. "The queer thing is, I don't think he's joking..."

  "Sorry?"

  "About killing people. Alfred was ruined by do-gooders and God-botherers. No-one's ever proved anything, of course. He was questioned by the police a few years ago. This ghastly suburban woman —Whitewash? Whitewall?—started a campaign to get piano-legs covered, that sort of thing. Wanted to clean up smutty movies. Said Brief Encounter was immoral and undermined the family. J. Arthur tried to calm her down by inviting her to the studios, giving her the VIP treatment. He made the mistake of getting Les Oiseaux to do the catering. Three days later, she was dead of a 'mystery stomach bug'. I hope you like poultry and game-birds. That's Alfred's speciality. Shall we order?"

  After three excellent courses, during which Powell had astounded Bob with funny stories about famous actresses he had slept with, the coffee arrived and Powell's eyes turned to neons again.

  "Now, about Terry and Butler," he began.

  Bob writhed in his seat, coffee gritty in his mouth.

  "You can't show Terry killing Butler. They've both got families."

  Powell smiled, sharp teeth showing.

  "Every time you see an extra with his kit slung incorrectly, you whine. Whenever we combine or manufacture characters to distil a greater truth from the morass of reality, you complain. And yet, you lie throughout your book. And you feel threatened when we diverge from your lies to tell the truth."

  "You weren't there, you don't understand."

  "No, Bob, I wasn't and I don't. But you were there, and you don't understand. You have no excuse."

  Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman

  "Thelma was reading the manuscript over my shoulder as I was typing it. There were things I couldn't put in the book."

  "Did you write the book for Thelma?"

  "It's dedicated to her."

  "Why not to Terry?"

  "You know...what he did afterward...the terrible thing. Some say he's no better than a traitor himself."

  "Some? Do you?"

  Bob took another swallow of coffee. It wasn't helping.

  He had scuppered Plan Wooden Horse, by freezing up. He hadn't killed Butler, but let Terry do it for him. And, in Fotherington-Thomas's compound, where severed heads were kicked about like footballs, he had lost it again.

  "When you came to visit me in Avening, I told you there was a great dishonesty in the book. What I'm trying to do is squeeze that out of the film. Sometimes, that involves making up things that didn't happen. Sometimes, it involves showing things that will u
pset Thelma and people's families and the bloody Church of England. Now, Bob, are you with me or against me? Can I count on you for the rest of the shoot, or do I have to ask Alfred to whip up one of his special cream desserts for you?"

  Bob didn't know.

  "I have no time for politics," said Powell, running a huge cigar under his nose. "But the way I see it, your friend Terry is being the honest one. Fancy a brandy?"

  "I haven't seen him since. I called on his parents. His Dad's disowned him. Yes please."

  "He could have changed his name, gone to earth, maybe moved to another country."

  "But your fdm, Micky, is going to make it worse for him. He'll never be able to get on a bus again without worrying that one of Stan Butler's mates will recognise him."

  Powell shook his head. "Your unfinished business with your friend is between you and him, Bob. Nobody else."

  He was right, of course. Even in rare moments when he was being civil, Micky Powell had a way of making Bob feel a total wanker. He was like a combination of Captain Vinh and Terry.

  There was a commotion at the door. A small man in an immaculately-cut overcoat stormed in like a raging bull.

  m

  Back in the USSA

  "Mee-keey!" he yelled through a jet-black beard, "Mee-key Powell! Wonderful news!"

  Powell rose and engulfed the little Sicilian in a hug.

  "I am so happy," said Scorsese. "I have been to see Gelbfisch," he crossed himself, "he like rushes. He say you get extra twenty thou for the, you know..." He made circular motions with both hands.

  "Helicopters?" suggested Powell.

  "Helicopters! Si! All helicopters you need! Is great news, no?"

  Vinh was incandescent with fury. All the prisoners were lined up as if for inspection. His reasoning was that since the head-count was one short and he knew no-one had breached the perimeter, someone was playing hide-and-seek.

  "Very well. If Butler does not show himself within ten minutes, I shall have one of you executed."

  Bob and Terry looked at each other.

  All night, they had scrabbled at the soft earth under the floor of the hut, digging not a tunnel but a grave. The idea had been that Vimto would assume Stan—strengthened by that extra chocolate and driven insane by guilt—had escaped into the jungle.