And he proceeded to tell her what he knew.
‘I will not hear this!’ The princess buried her fingers in her ears. Carapace reached for her, but she evaded him.
‘Ginansia, please believe that I have no desire to hurt you.’
Warily, anxiously, she lowered her hands. ‘Do not lie to me in this matter, my lord, I entreat you. This is the only world I know.’
‘I merely seek to open your eyes, lady, and to show you what your family will not – cannot.’
But now the passage entrance was at her back with its catch between her fingers, and she fell thankfully into the tunnel, shoving the wall slab shut and running away through the freezing stone space. Behind, she heard him bellowing her name. ‘Open your eyes, Ginansia!’ came the fading call.
The only light in the dripping tunnel leaked from the cracks between the bricks. When Carapace could no longer be heard, she slowed her pace and drew breath. Wet, steep steps led down, and the corridor curved. She pulled the woollen dress around her, longing for the comforting arms of Leperdandy, the yielding warmth of her own bed. But before that, she had to ascertain the truth. Rest and peace would come only with knowledge that the Lord Of Beetles had lied.
The far end of the corridor was misted with the spicy scent of cloves, revealing the proximity of the kitchens and providing her with a means of irrefutable proof. To her right, a rectangle of buttery light marked the passage’s egress. Locating a wooden catch and depressing it, she carefully opened the panel and stepped through. A wall of moist warm air instantly enveloped her.
The crimson-tiled scullery was deserted at this late hour. The gigantic butcher’s block table, around which utensils stood in earthenware pots like bunches of steel flowers, had been scrubbed clean. Pulpers, colanders and dough knives dangled in clumps from S-shaped hooks. Light was thrown from the flickering burners of the huge iron stove that extended along one side of the room. Beneath the dull roar of flames below the pots, the princess could hear logs and coals sifting and shifting in the boiler.
She approached the stove, where four great shining saucepans, each of them several feet deep, simmered on the glowing hob. The handle on the lid of the first was too hot to be clasped, so she plucked up a muslin dishcloth and wound it around her fingers. The ring of flame beneath the metal cauldron illuminated her flushed cheeks as she slowly raised the lid.
At once she smelled a dizzying aroma of marjoram, spackwort, cumin and meat, meat most of all as she waved a path through the steam and peered in.
The bubbling brown liquid revealed nothing but surfacing chunks of carrot and fennel. She found a wooden spoon, two feet long and slotted at the bowl, which she carefully lowered into the boiling gravy. The joint within was heavy and hard to raise without slopping juice everywhere, so she was forced to use both hands to balance the spoon.
It was a head, human and male.
Its hair had been shaved away, and the lenses of the eyes had boiled into bulging orbs as hard and white as peppermints. The grey skin seemed loose and ready to separate from the skull. There were no teeth in the mouth, and the lower lip had come loose from the flayed gums. Ginansia screamed and dropped the boulder of meat and bone back into the fragrant depths of the pot, sending its juices hissing and splashing in waves across the burners.
Carapace’s words came humming back into her ears. ‘For you feed on human flesh!’ he had cried. ‘The Bayne family, so proud and so regal, are eaters of corpses, devourers of humanity! Why even the name itself is a corruption, from Sawney Beane and his cannibal horde – these are your fine ancestors! And you dare to call me barbarian!’
Bile had risen in her gullet. ‘Lies, all damnable lies!’
‘Go to the dungeons and see what your father breeds before you damn me treasonous, see what happens to the war prisoners you take. See how their souls reside in the colons of the royal family Bayne! And consider how you yourself have been nourished on the bones of your enemies!’
With a painful howl she ran from the infernal kitchen, leaving the boiling vats of human flesh behind her.
Dwindoline rocked forward in her chair and ran her fingers lightly over her son’s fine hair. The boy had slumped his carcass before her fireplace and had barely moved in an hour. Now the apartment was lit only by sinking embers.
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ she said softly. ‘None of us can be protected beyond a certain age, and I’m afraid that your half-sister’s time had simply arrived.’
‘It seems so unfair,’ said Leperdandy. ‘Why can’t we stay innocent forever? Knowledge can only destroy us.’
‘You mustn’t believe that, child. There always has to be hope for the future.’
Leperdandy raised his head and glared at her. ‘What kind of hope? That one day we will be allowed to walk free beyond these walls?’
‘Until Scarabold has found success in his endeavours there can be no freedom for any of us.’
‘It might help if he didn’t cut the heads from those who failed in his negotiations.’ Unsnagging his muscles, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘I’ll go and await Ginansia’s return. No doubt she’ll need some comforting after her ordeal. Thanks for the advice, Mother, but it’s clear you don’t have a solution to our predicament any more than I.’
She sighed. ‘The young are impatient.’
‘And the old complacent.’
Dwindoline watched her son take leave with anguish fevering her breast. She knew she could not change the path of the family, only suffer in silence as each new generation discovered its dark heart.
For the remaining hours of that night, Britannica Castle was filled with tortured bruits: the bitter screams of the mortified princess, the enraged, insane laughter of the beetle earl, the muffled confusions of the boy Leperdandy – and the comfortable, well-fed farts of a slumbering king.
Perfect Casting
* * *
This is my first attempt at a noir crime story, and it was such a pleasure to write that I may do some more. It’s not a whodunnit, more a who’s going to do it; Edmund Crispin has already covered everything I’d want to do in the former category. Those of you unfamiliar with the creator of the capricious detective-don Gervase Fen should seek out his eleven hilarious, macabre books, or you can borrow mine if you promise to let me have them back.
IT WAS THE season of sulphur. The autumn air already held a sharp smell of fireworks. Just beyond the edge of Regents Park, the keepers were raking a bonfire. Peter Tipping noticed spirals of sparks above a sore amber glow of dead leaves just before he turned into the north end of Baker Street. Night had fallen before five. For the next few months darkness would achromatise the days. London was a private city in winter. People remained hidden inside, leaving the buildings to come alive in damp air.
The curving cream stone of the apartment block drew close, and then he was standing below the entrance. Climbing the steps and reluctantly withdrawing his hand from the warmth of his overcoat pocket, he pressed the brass stud and bent close to the intercom, waiting for the familiar sound of Jonathan’s voice.
‘You’re late, Peter.’ A hurt tone filtered through. The buzzer sounded, and he stepped into a marble hall. Beyond that, rich crimson carpet and a trellis lift. Chalfont Court was not at home to the twentieth century. There was still a porter’s lodge beside the main entrance, still a mahogany box affixed to the wall for the placement of calling cards. The building lodged liverish retired colonels, ancient widows with tiny hyperactive dogs, a couple of discreet escort agencies and a few old show-business types.
Jonathan belonged to the last group. His apartment on the fifth floor had been his combined office and home for the past thirty years, during which time business and leisure had lived in easy symbiosis. It would have been impossible to imagine any other arrangement, as the elderly theatrical agent was attuned to receiving lengthy telephone calls near the midnight hour. At this time he would calm his nervous charges, soothe their fears of thespian inadequacy, listen to their analytical appra
isals of the night’s performance, always reassuring, calming and cajoling.
He wouldn’t be doing that for Peter tonight. Peter had let him down again.
‘So, you finally made it.’ Jonathan pursed his lips and stepped back in the doorway, a balloon-shaped figure balancing on tiny feet, allowing Peter to enter. The passage was lined with posters for shows misbegotten and forgotten, the disco Ibsen, the reggae Strindberg, a musical version of Bleak House called Jarndyce! starring Noele Gordon, fading signatures from faded stars. Jonathan’s fat right fist contained a tumbler filled with gin and irregular chunks of ice, and there were telephones trilling in the distance. Peter was always comforted by the changeless disarray of the flat. This was a place where actors were cushioned and cosseted, heard out and then fed with alcohol. Jonathan puffed past, rings glittering in the dim hall, ready to make Peter a drink even though –
‘Even though I’m terribly, terribly angry with you.’ He entered the kitchen, chipped off an ice chunk and dropped it into a tumbler, pausing to push his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. Jonathan was constantly in a sweat. It leaked from beneath the auburn wig that fooled no one and trickled beneath his bulging eyes so that his clients were misdirected into believing that news of their backstage woes had moved him to tears. ‘One should always be grateful of an audition, Peter, bitterly grateful, and you do yourself no favours by acting otherwise.’
Peter had thought the job beneath him, but he hadn’t had a decent audition in nearly three months. Playing a jolly dad in a commercial for frozen lasagna wouldn’t have been the zenith of his performing career, but it would at least have brought in steady residuals.
‘The director was a complete arsehole, Jon.’ He accepted the drink and followed the agent through to his desk. There was parkland below the windows of the semicircular lounge, but even during the day it was barely visible through winter mist and traffic fumes. ‘I was kept waiting for over an hour, and then asked questions about my motivation by some ad-speaking agency slimeball,’ Peter complained. ‘I answered him back a little sharply, nothing more, and they told me I wasn’t needed any longer.’
Jonathan waved the explanation aside. ‘I know, I had them on the phone for half an hour warning me never to send you there again. You’re going to be blacklisted by the agency, Peter, the third largest advertising agency in London.’ He pushed back-issues of the Stage from a leather sofa and sat, daintily crossing his legs at the ankle. ‘What have I always said is your biggest stumbling block?’
‘Arrogance,’ Peter admitted, knowing he was about to receive the usual lecture.
‘You’ve been with me for nearly a year now, and you’ve hardly worked. You come back with the same story after every audition. You had three – it is three, isn’t it? – agents before me. You can’t go on blaming your representation. It’s a matter of learning to handle authority.’
Peter felt the need to explain himself. ‘I couldn’t see that there was much authority coming from –’
‘Authority is anyone who employs you, Peter, and you simply can’t afford to alienate them. At least you could wait until you’ve got the job and you’ve established a working relationship. Christ, even Larry managed to do that.’
‘But you’re sending me along for rubbishy little parts directed by ignorant children.’ He could feel the gin and the heat of the apartment forcing colour into his face. ‘Half of these brats are barely out of film school.’
‘You want me to change the system for you? I can’t help it if the industry is getting younger around you. That’s all there is, you either take it or leave it.’
‘Perhaps if I had some new shots done …’ He had been considering an image change for some time. A new haircut, sharper clothes.
‘Photographs aren’t going to make any difference, Peter. Let’s be honest, you don’t look like a classic leading male. Your nose is too long, your eyes are too small and your weight fluctuates. You’d make a good villain, but you’re never going to get juve leads. You won’t take serious theatrical roles –’
‘I can’t remember long speeches,’ Peter admitted. ‘Lots of actors get by without classical theatre.’
‘You’re not prepared to do panto, so what does that leave? There’s no British film industry any more and the network franchises are carving each other up, so you should face the fact that if there’s an audition – any audition – you have to go for it.’ Jonathan wiped the sweat from the edge of his wig. ‘That’s if you want to work. You’re too old to have tantrums, and there’s always someone else willing to take the part. As Coward used to sing, ‘There’s another generation knock-knock-knocking at the door.’
Even though he realised that Jonathan was trying to help him, Peter wanted to punch the smug little man squatting opposite with his empty tumbler balanced on his paunch. He knew the agent meant to shock him into better behaviour but he wasn’t prepared to waste his career behaving like a sheep, being pushed about by some snotty MTV kid turned commercials director. Hadn’t Hitchcock said that actors were cattle? Had nothing changed since then? It was fine for the pretty teenagers flitting in and out of the office on casting calls, busy enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame, happy to do what they were told, but he was an adult with opinions of his own. He looked across at Jonathan, who was waving his hands as if acting out part of some wailing chorus.
‘Oh, I don’t know what more I can say to you, Peter. I’ve always had a lot of working people on my books, some of them very successful –’
‘If you’re referring to the little queen you placed in the Channel 4 presenter’s job …’
‘That’s uncharitable and you know it. He got the part because he was young and he looked right. I mean people like Marc Ford.’
Peter knew all about Marc Ford. Among actors, it was a famous success story. The young player hadn’t worked for almost a year. He was down to his last penny, and his wife was pregnant. He’d been offered a small speaking role as a Nazi storm trooper in a low-budget German film being shot in London. As there was hardly any money left to pay the actors, the producer had offered him points at two and a half per cent, and he had accepted. Three weeks’ work, standing in a tank of freezing filthy water, then he’d forgotten all about it. The damned thing had won an Oscar for best foreign film and subsequently played to packed houses throughout the world. Marc had retired, a millionaire. He had been advised to take the part by his agent, Jonathan.
‘Actually, something did come in today. Not terribly interesting, but worth a bit of money.’ Jonathan was a practical man. Having delivered his standard speech he would now attempt to perform some kind of positive deed that would help his boy. They were all his boys and girls. He hadn’t much hope for Peter, though. He’d pegged him as one of the bitter ones, an actor who resented success in others and bore the fatal flaw of being unable to acknowledge his own faults. Actors were supposed to see things more clearly. You couldn’t trip blindly through life always blaming the director.
He moved back to his desk and unclipped sheets of fax paper from a chrome letter rack, checking through them. ‘I had a call from a company called VideoArts. They make corporate promos, and they’re looking for featured extras. The first call is Hampstead Heath on Friday morning, early start, dress in your own clothes.’
That means 6 am, thought Peter. Have to book a cab there, stand around freezing in the pitch dark waiting for the director to show up.
Jonathan was watching him, waiting for his reaction. It was a test to see if he would show willing. ‘Well, do you want it?’
Time to be a good boy. Reluctantly, he agreed to go along.
‘Good, now we’re getting somewhere.’ Jonathan’s smile only affected the lower part of his face. He waved the sheet of paper, ineffectually fanning himself. ‘The company produces ten promos for the same client every year, and they like to keep their cast consistent. It’s just extra work, but they might take you on permanently, which would mean a regular monthly cheque.’
&nbs
p; And a regular percentage for you, thought Peter. Another dead-end job that would advance him nowhere. He’d see how it went, but after this perhaps he wouldn’t need an agent at all. He had recently heard of a more interesting proposition, a casting call that hadn’t come through his agent and had far greater possibilities than a god-awful boring sales promo.
At the Fulham Road gym the following morning Peter checked out the details with Fanny, who worked in the coffee bar. As far as she knew, the rumour she had heard a few days ago was true. One of the actors using the free-weights room had told her – she couldn’t remember who. He’d casually mentioned a feature film that was due to start shooting in less than a week. It was being produced by a Dutch, or perhaps a Belgian company, a thriller set in present-day London, but she hadn’t been able to understand the title. Filming would take place in central locations for a minimum of six weeks, and because of casting problems a number of male speaking roles were still to be assigned. She remembered the name of the contact but had no telephone number. It would take a bit of sleuthing to find that out.
Fanny was happy to pass on a professional tip, partly because she still hoped that Peter might find her attractive. She was an actress but had been disabled by a childhood illness, and only took roles that allowed her to appear in her wheelchair. The rest of the time she worked at the gym, running the bar, strengthening the upper half of her body with weights and waiting for a man like Peter to ask her out. She had once thought that working here would make her more independent, but the male patrons arrived with inflated egos that pushed her own flimsy sense of courage back into her wheelchair.
Peter tried not to look too excited about the tip. The gym was full of actors who might overhear and get there first. ‘You mean it’s being shot in English?’ he asked, lowering his voice.
‘I suppose so. A lot of these people dub or subtitle according to the territory, don’t they?’
Flesh Wounds Page 8
