"Rip…"
He grasped her shoulder and drew her to arm's length, holding her until he finished his joke, as though she had intruded on an audition. When he finished he threw his head back and laughed too loudly, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down in a vigorous swallowing motion. Finally he turned to her.
"Chrissie, love!" He pulled her closer. "Mark, I'd like you to meet our new Story Editor."
"Rip, have you seen…?"
"No, I don't know where Milo's scampered off to. But I'll bet he's up to no good." He hooked a thumb at the ceiling. "Try topside."
"Rip, if anyone asks for me…"
"If I were you, love - " Rip winked. "I wouldn't disturb him just yet."
I'm on my own, she thought. I always have been. The rest was an illusion.
"Never mind." She hoisted a fresh champagne glass, emptied it. "See you at midnight," she said, slipping through to the stairs.
There were a lot of voices up there. Perhaps that was where she would find what she was looking for. It was getting late, and she had to have everything in place before the fireworks started.
5. MAKEUP AREA - THE NEXT DAY
She's in the chair, getting the coddling she needs from her new family. The makeup man is kind, sensitive. She may have left her real family back home, but at last she feels that she belongs somewhere.
When she leaves the chair, the makeup man and crew change their tune. The poor kid's getting to be a pain. She's too nervous, high-strung, dangerously unstable. But it's too late to replace her. Time is running out.
6. ON THE SET
She breaks down again. The director tries to coach her but it's still not enough. She's too insecure. After take twelve, she pleads with him for the chance to do it again.
"Tell me the way you told me last night. I only want it to be good."
"That's all I want, too," he tells her.
The dim stairway was tricky. A blur of zippy, ironic faces as she ascended: young men without sideburns and casually elegant young women dragged along like camp followers, their made-up smiles fixed and grimly determined. Her wrist brushed something cold and slick. It was a heart-shaped satin pillow, carried as an offering by someone of indeterminate gender. She drew away and hugged the wall as she stepped over sodden paper plates; she made out an imprint of two lovebirds billing and cooing beneath half-eaten potato salad and drooping chicken wings.
"Excuse me," she said.
"Excuse me," said the person with the pillow. "Are you the one?"
"I hope so," she said, averting her eyes and hurrying on. Then the words and the masculine timbre of the voice registered. She stopped, looking back.
"I beg your pardon," she said, "but…"
Below, a nostalgic sixties strobe light flickered over dancing heads, rendering them all as anonymous as a second-unit crew.
She felt as if she were still trapped in a pattern that had been set decades ago. It would never change unless she did something about it. This was no time to falter. She remembered something her father had said to her before he went away. When you sit, sit. When you stand, stand. But don't wobble. The last few hours had brought his words home to her; now she understood.
Where was he? Time was running out.
She scanned the tops of the heads below, but the man with the heart was gone.
She started back down the stairs, panicking. He must not get away.
From the other side of the stairwell, something shiny thrust out to touch her.
"You are," said the man with the satin pillow. "I can tell."
"Thank God."
She pressed him up the stairs to the second landing. A dimmer hallway stretched ahead, cut across by shafts of subdued light from the several bedrooms. She did not remember which was Milo's but knew she must find it before the appointed hour. From below she heard a rush of excitement. Was the girl Rip had hired here already?
"Come with me," she said. "We have to talk."
7. HOTEL DINING ROOM
The director is having dinner with his producer. The pressure is on to finish in time. But the director can do it. He's done it before. The last scene is going to be a killer.
In the scene the girl's boyfriend, the night manager from the supermarket, will lead soldiers to a graveyard to rescue her. There will be lots of pyrotechnics.
Now the girl appears in the dining room. She sits down without being invited, expecting to be warmly received. She assumes that she is part of the director's life now. She waits for his greeting. But he only looks at her. He takes her aside and tells her impatiently to grow up. This is real life.
8. FX TRAILER
The director goes to his fx man for help. The girl is hanging everybody up. He can't let it go on this way. Nothing is more important than the picture.
What scenes does she have left? They go over the storyboards: only the Burning of the Zombies. The night manager will lead the attack on the graveyard, shot gunning dummies of zombies behind the gravestones. Then the National Guard lobs grenades in - the boyfriend will have to run a careful path around the explosive charges. Once the dummies are blown, he'll torch them with a flamethrower.
All they need from the girl is a close-up of her as she receives a blood squib from the shotgun, her shocked expression as she comes to her senses and recognizes her lover at the instant he kills her. Then cut to an exploding dummy.
Is there a way to shoot around her? Long shots, a better dummy, more bloody and effects to cover? The other zombies will be blown away using dummy substitutes, but they need her for the reaction shots - she's the Queen of the Zombies.
Marty is always one step ahead. He's saved the director's ass time and again. This time he's already made an alginate cast of the girl. He's got a full latex body mould of her ready as a back-up. It is lifelike to the tiniest detail. It's more than a dummy - it can be worn by a double, if necessary. Now they can finish with or without the girl.
You're a genius, the director tells him. This is going to be a bloody masterpiece regardless of actors. They’re nothing but trouble, anyway.
She led him on down the hall. There was a lilting peal of laughter from the first bedroom; from the second she heard boisterous chatter, and through the unlatched door glimpsed a pale hand with razor blade describing furiously in the air above a horizontal mirror. The third was closed, with a crude sign attached to the doorknob: private - off limits. That, she guessed, was Rip's doing.
She pulled the man with the heart into the adjoining bathroom. The connecting door was ajar; in the bedroom, the soft, filtered glow of a small lamp. It was enough. "Here, we can be alone…"
He stood uncertainly in the middle of the bathroom floor. "I've been waiting for you," he said.
"I know. I've been waiting for you, too," she told him, and heard giggles and footsteps approaching in the hall.
"Busted," he said.
"No." She backed up to secure the door. "Not us."
Leaning against it, she allowed her eyes to flutter shut. She waited for the room to stop spinning so that she could make the speech she had rehearsed. When she opened her eyes, he had moved closer.
He stood before her and tilted his head quizzically.
"But you don't know what I've got planned, do you?" she said. "I should explain."
"You don't have to," he said. "I think I understand."
"How could you?"
"I told you. I've been waiting a long time."
"Forgive me. I'm being rude. I don't mean to be. It's just that it's all happened so fast…"
"Take it easy," he said. He withdrew to give her breathing space and sat on the edge of the tub. "I don't mind waiting a little longer." A reflection from the tiles glinted playfully in his eyes.
Good, she thought. He's game.
"As long as it's not too long," he said.
In the hall, the footsteps and the giggling drew nearer.
9. ON THE SET
The girl arrives with notes in hand, more eager than ever to please her d
irector.
But he's not in his chair. Somebody else is - a woman.
The director's wife. The crew is gathered around, laughing and reminiscing. The wife is now the centre of attention. The girl is displaced.
She finds the director and tells him off. He uses people. He doesn't care about anything but blood, blood and more blood. Why did he lead her on? Shell tell the world, starting with his wife.
He tells her the facts of life. "She already knows." He doesn't need the girl anymore. The relationship is a wrap.
As she runs from the set, the wife observes. How sweet and innocent the girl looks. "I hope she doesn't take it too seriously. I used to - but now we lead separate lives. I learned a long time ago that this is his only real world -making movies. It's all he lives for. Real flesh and blood can't compete. The only thing he's truly married to is his capacity for illusion…"
10. GRAVEYARD - THE LAST NIGHT
The crew is working feverishly to rig everything for the climax.
The director lingers after the rest of the crew have gone home. At 4 a.m. he finishes checking every detail. The zombie dummies are propped up on armatures behind the tombstones, the oil-smoke pots are ready, the crosses are tilted just so. Nothing left but to call "action" at dawn. For now, he'll catch an hour's shuteye in his trailer.
"It won't be long," she said when the footsteps passed.
He shook his head sadly. "It's been such a long, long time," he said at last. "I'd almost given up hope. But you are the one, aren't you? Yes. You are."
"I'm the one," she said. "Now listen…"
He waved the stuffed heart. "I've been carrying this around, trying to find the right person to give it to." He made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a shudder. "But no one would take it."
"You didn't need to do that," she said. Something to recognize him by? She could not remember any mention of it on the phone. It was a good idea, of course; it would have made him easier to spot. Or was it a gift? "What is it?"
He stood and came closer, holding it out. "What does it look like? I wanted to give it away, but there were never any takers. I wonder why that is? But now you're - "
"Yes, of course. There isn't much time. I don't know where to begin. You must be wondering why I brought you here."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does! That's what I'm trying to tell you. I see a lot of people…"
"So do I," he said. "Or I did. That's all over now."
Somehow he had gotten across the floor and was now only inches from her. She couldn't see his face; in the shadows he could have been anyone. She recalled a brief flash on the stairs: kind features, pained eyes, a hangdog expression. That only made her feel worse. She forced herself to go on. She could make things right. It was not too late.
Before she could speak, he braced his hands on either side of her head and leaned in to kiss her.
At first she was too dumbfounded to resist. Then she thought, Oh Christ, not at a time like this. Then she thought, What did he imagine when I called him, led him here…?
My God.
"Wait," she said, breaking and turning aside.
But he pressed her and enfolded her mouth again.
At that moment someone pushed on the other side of the door at her back, trying to gain entry. Her front teeth struck his with a grinding like fingernails on a blackboard.
"Sorry," mumbled a voice from the hall.
She spread her hands against his chest. "No," she said, "please, you don't understand. That's not what this is about."
"What is this about, then?"
"Will you hurry up in there?" said the voice from the hall.
She was shaken, confused. But there was no time for that. The clock was ticking.
Now there was a pounding on the door.
"This way," she said, and dragged him through the connecting door to the bedroom.
"I wish you'd make up your mind."
"Listen," she said, "my name's - "
"I don't care."
"You sent me a story, right? I showed it to my producer. He liked it. So much that he wants it for next season. But not to buy it. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not making myself clear. It's my fault, too. I'll tell you about that later. But you'd better get down to WGA Manuscript Registry first thing in the morning. File whatever you've got - preliminary drafts, notes, anything."
"Why should I do that?"
"I'm trying to help you! They're going to steal your story. When Milo comes up here, I want you to tell him who you are."
She took the pages of the original version from her purse.
"I had to warn you. Whatever he says, don't back down. We're in this together. Now any minute all hell's going to break loose. Regardless of anything, know that I'll stand up for you. I want to make it up somehow. Maybe you'll end up hating me, I don't know. But I've got to try. I'm truly sorry. Believe that."
She inhaled, exhaled, wishing her heart would slow down. In the bathroom a few feet away, someone locked the doors.
The bedroom was quiet, the lighting cool. On the nightstand the contents of a lava lamp flowed together, heated up and broke apart again into separate bodies, endlessly. Her mouth hurt; it was warm and wet. There was a sound of water running.
"What, may I ask," the man said, "are you talking about?"
"I'm trying to tell you that I'm all for you," she said, "no matter what."
Impatience flared in his eyes.
"Make up your mind," he said.
11. AT HIS TRAILER
The graveyard is spooky - he almost feels that he's being followed. He's about to enter the trailer when a ghoul appears. It's the girl, in full ghastly makeup.
He tries to get rid of her, knowing she's not really needed. But this time she's coming on differently. Not whining and needful, but happy as a puppy dog and all set to please. See? She's ready, and she's going to be perfect. She's even worked out a little something extra for her moment of death. It's her own idea and she's sure he's going to like it. If she can just try it out on him first.
She seems to have accepted reality. She really wants more than anything else for the picture to be good, after all. The same thing he wants. It's all that matters. She realizes that now.
"You've taught me a lot. More than you know. Now let me give you something back - what you really want. I want it now, too."
12. IN THE TRAILER
She runs through her expressions as he stands in for her lover. She screams on cue. Almost perfect. She needs to try it with the shotgun. She's brought it with her, already loaded with wax blood bullets. She's thought of everything.
"You want it to be real, don't you?" She presses him to take the prop gun. "We have to do it right. I want you to see how much I'm willing to give you. Let's do it all the way. And this time you're going to get everything you want. I promise."
He's reluctant, but he plays it out. When she starts screaming, he fires the shotgun. The look in her eyes is one of peace at last, as blood explodes and she sinks down the wall to the floor.
"Jesus, that was great! What a take! If we'd had a camera…" He leans down, shakes her. "Cut. That's it. You've finally got it. Hey, what's the…?"
He touches the wound. It's real. When she handed him the gun, it had a live round in the chamber. She had planned it that way.
He cleans up frantically to get rid of the evidence - no one will believe what really happened.
What about the body?
A desperate plan. Hell replace her dummy on the set with the real thing, propping her up behind the tombstone like all the other dummies. The evidence will be blown to hell, then burned to a cinder. When the flamethrower hits her, the rubber makeup will bum like napalm. There won't be anything left.
He'll put her into position himself. No one will notice.
"I'm doing you a favour," she told him. "At least that's what I'm trying to do. If you'll let me."
"Are you the one?" he repeated more forcefully.
"Yes. I mean no.
" She evaded his grasp once again. "I mean…"
"But you said you're the one." He waved the heart-shaped pillow.
"Not like that," she said. "This is about something more important. Don't you see?"
"I should have known. You're not who I thought you were."
"Yes!"
"Which is it?" he said, angry now.
"Just - not the way you mean it!"
He was about to leave.
"This is very important to me," she said.
"To you," he said. "It always gets down to that."
"And to you! What's the matter with you? Haven't you heard a word I've been saying? Can't you…?"
He glared down at her. He tapped the pillow into her chest. "It never changes. You're just like all the rest." He tapped her again more aggressively. "It's always me, isn't it? Isn't it."
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?" he said fiercely, directly into her face.
Her scalp began to crawl. Who is this man? she thought. I've made another mistake, the biggest one of all.
"Wh-who are you?" she said.
"Who are you" he said, "to ask that? Who the fuck do you think you are?"
She tried to dodge him as he lunged for her, a lifetime of disappointment igniting his rage. He grabbed her and flung her against the hall door before she could get it open, pushed himself in front of her. The pillow thrust up under her chin, forcing her head back. It wasn't soft, after all. It had something dangerously hard inside it. In fact it wasn't a pillow. It was an elaborate, padded Valentine gift box.
He raised it high. She saw the red heart poised to strike her, the satin covering worn, tattered, stained but still a deep crimson, like his face and the roadmap of years there, like the blood that ran from his cut lip. She didn't know who he was. He could have been anyone.
He was a madman.
Suddenly the door rattled. It rammed into her spine as someone tried to open it. She was driven into his arms.
Stephen Jones (ed) Page 49
