Merely Players

by J M Gregson

  The closing credits rolled, as the cameras switched away from the discomforted Tucker to the faces of the vigorously applauding audience.

  A mile away from the television studio in Manchester, Cassidy’s new agent was enduring a difficult phone conversation. Mark Gilbey gazed out at the spectacular view of the Lowry Centre’s stainless steel from his fourteenth-storey office and listened carefully, whilst saying as little as possible.

  This wasn’t a new situation for him. Former agents often cut up rough when their clients transferred their allegiance. Indeed, Gilbey handled very few people who hadn’t come to him from someone else. He didn’t take unknowns on to his books; he could afford to pick and choose among the people who wanted him to represent them.

  Normally the complaints of agents who had been forsaken did not trouble him. He never poached clients, so his conscience as well as the legal situation was clear. Everyone who used the Gilbey agency came to him on his or her own initiative. Mark’s only action was to agree to take them on. Any previous business relationships were neither his responsibility nor his concern. Agents who felt they had been betrayed must take up the issue with their former clients, not with him. The legal situation was exactly the same for him in this case as in many others; he had nothing to fear from the law. But he was being very careful not to offer provocation to the angry man at the other end of the phone line.

  That was because this man was Tony Valento.

  Mark had no idea which of the many tales which were told about Valento were true. The man was certainly of Italian extraction; his dark hair and olive complexion bore witness to that. But he spoke with no trace of an accent other than cockney. How far his reputation for violence was genuine was not clear, and Mark did not intend to research the matter at first hand. Tony Valento was supposed to have Mafia connections and to have made his way in the industry by a mixture of charm and violence. How much violence? There were few facts and a wealth of myth about that. As usual, the rumour-mongers could soon transform a small happening into high-pitched melodrama. Mark Gilbey would stick to his guns, be as firm as he always was, but steer clear of any personal involvement.

  Valento was going through the sort of argument Mark had heard many times before. ‘I took the bastard on when he was almost unknown. I made the brand that is now Adam Cassidy. He’d have got nowhere without me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Tony. These people have no loyalty. I’m sure all show business people have a touch of the tart in them.’

  ‘So tell him that. Tell the bugger he’d have got nowhere without me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve already told him that yourself, Tony.’

  ‘I haven’t. The first I heard about this was the letter from you today which told me you were taking over his contracts.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I am really. But all I got from him was your name as his former agent. It’s the normal protocol to write and inform the previous operator that you’ve been asked to take over. I’m sure you do the same thing yourself.’

  ‘But this is the first I’ve heard of it! The bloody man hasn’t said a word to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I can see how annoying it must be for you. But you must take that up with Mr Cassidy. All I’ve done is agree to represent him, in response to a direct request from him. I’m sure you’ll agree that I have acted honourably. Indeed, I would have been flouting the unwritten rules of our profession if I had refused a well-established actor services which he considered would be valuable to him. I have fulfilled all the normal protocol. That includes my formal letter advising you of our representation of Mr Cassidy, which you received this morning.’

  ‘I got him the Alec Dawson role. He’d be nothing without that. Now he thinks he’s big enough to ditch me and go to Hollywood.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me about the way he was treating his previous agent. I didn’t even know that was you, Tony. But of course that wasn’t my business, was it? If these people come and ask us to act for them, we have to take them on, don’t we? I can only presume that he thinks we have the contacts to get him the work he wants. But from an ethical point of view, he should have discussed it with you first. Of course he should.’

  There was a pause. Mark could hear the man breathing hard into the mouthpiece of his phone; ethics were probably a novel consideration for Mr Valento. ‘You say the bugger’s already signed up with you?’

  ‘I’m afraid he has, yes. He should have discussed his intentions with you, but I’m sure you’ll agree that I couldn’t turn him away when he came to us.’

  ‘Too bloody right you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. The slimy sod’s going to have to answer to me for this!’ The line was abruptly dead.

  Mark Gilbey ran a finger round the inside of his collar. He was sweating, despite the calm tone he had preserved for his phone conversation. Adam Cassidy was perfectly within his rights to change his agent. There was no doubt about that. But at the moment Mark was glad that he wasn’t in Cassidy’s expensive Italian leather shoes.

  ‘You’re late!’ said Harry Cassidy accusingly to his elder son. As with many an ageing person, his world was growing smaller by the day. And he was increasingly unaware of anyone else’s world outside his own.

  ‘It’s only twenty past five, Dad. And you know I never arrange to be here at a particular time, because I’m never sure when I’ll be able to get away after school. I have things to do after the children have gone home. I was giving a bit of tuition to a couple of sixth formers who are trying to get into Cambridge.’

  ‘You fart about with all kinds of stupid things, you do! You’ve missed our Adam on the telly.’ He spoke as if this were a sin several degrees beyond adultery.

  Luke had forgotten all about the chat show appearance, though his father had spoken of little else for almost a week. ‘I couldn’t have seen it anyway, Dad. I was teaching thirty fourteen-year-olds when the Gerry Clancy show was on.’

  ‘Well, think yourself bloody lucky, then. I’ve recorded it for you on the Sky Plus.’

  ‘That’s good. I’ll just put this dinner in the oven for you and then we’ll sit down and watch it together.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy this,’ his father assured him, as Luke pulled up a chair beside him. ‘There’s some bloody police officer on from Brunton. Our Adam makes a right fool of him.’

  Luke decided after watching Thomas Bulstrode Tucker for two minutes that the man was probably a pompous twit. But he plainly didn’t realize that he’d been set up as an easy target by his amiable-sounding host. Luke began to have a little more sympathy for Tucker as Clancy weighed into him about the incidence of burglary.

  ‘He’s a right bloody twit, this bugger,’ said Harry Cassidy.

  ‘He’s on a hiding to nothing here, Dad. And he’s probably very nervous.’

  ‘Nervous my arse!’ Harry’s language had become steadily more uninhibited since his wife’s death. ‘Just you watch what a fool he looks when he tries to argue with a smart lad like our Adam!’

  Luke began to wonder how many times his Dad had already played back this recording. He was hugging his thin chest with pleasure, rocking backwards and forwards and silently mouthing words which were clearly already familiar words to him as Adam spoke them. ‘He’ll mention me in a minute!’ he told Luke urgently, then sat back and grinned delightedly as Adam told of his father doing his bit for Queen and country.

  ‘You didn’t fight in the war! You were too young for that!’ Luke said indignantly. The words were out before he could stop them.

  ‘I did my National Service, didn’t I? Two years in bloody uniform, and don’t you forget it! Our Adam doesn’t forget it.’ He stopped the recording and wound it back resentfully. ‘You’re making us miss the best bit! You just listen to Adam weighing into this copper about all the bloody Pakis in Brunton.’

  He didn’t do that, of course. Adam Cassidy would never involve himself in anything so controversial. But Harry Cassidy like all bigots heard what he wanted to hear. Luke
said rather feebly, ‘The chief superintendent says we’ve a large number of Muslims in our town, most of whom are law-abiding citizens, Dad.’

  ‘He says we can’t control the bastards, you mean. Just you listen – you’re supposed to be intelligent.’

  ‘No, Dad. He says that there is a small minority amongst them who could be very dangerous.’

  ‘He says those wankers are working to destroy our country and the bloody police can do fuck-all about it. And our Adam tells him where to get off. Just you bloody listen instead of yapping, lad!’ He had paused the recording as the exchanges with his son grew more heated. Now he switched it on again and the pair watched the conclusion of the show in silence. Luke noticed that Tucker wasn’t allowed the right of reply to either his brother’s or Clancy’s wilder generalizations at the end of the broadcast. But he didn’t point this out to his father, wisely recognizing that prejudice had gone beyond the point of hearing reason.

  Luke brought in his father’s meal on a tray and set it on his lap, tucking a paper kitchen towel into his collar to prevent food soiling his clothing. He sat with him for a little while longer, trying to talk about some of the problems in his own working life. But Harry was still too excited to talk about anyone or anything other than his younger son. ‘He’s a lad, is our Adam! Pity you haven’t got a bit of his go.’

  It was intended as a challenge. Harry jutted his chin a little and waited for a response. Luke wondered why people became more aggressive with those around them as their physical powers declined towards helplessness. Or was that just his dad? Luke said mildly, ‘Adam and I are different beings, Dad, different personalities. Always were and always will be. It wouldn’t do if everyone was the same, would it?’

  Harry gazed unseeingly at the news pictures on his television screen. ‘He told ’em what was what, didn’t he, our Adam?’ He pushed his tray aside and hugged himself again, this time in slow motion.

  ‘Pity he couldn’t pop in and see you this morning, as he’d promised faithfully to do.’ The comment was out before Luke could stop it, a splutter of bile to release the tension of the resentment the old man had roused in him.

  Harry Cassidy looked at Luke as if he had been thumped. His previously exultant face filled abruptly with shock and incomprehension. ‘He’s a busy man, Luke. He’s always busy, our Adam. You don’t understand the life he has to lead.’

  The life he’s chosen to lead, thought Luke. ‘I expect he is busy, Dad. We all are, for most of the time. But he shouldn’t promise to come to see you and then not turn up.’

  The old man’s face set back into its normal impassive state, and in that moment Luke felt guilty for snatching away the undoubted pleasure the television footage had brought to him. ‘He’d have come if he could have,’ said Harry stubbornly. ‘He’s fond of his old Dad, Adam is. Not like some I could mention!’

  This time Luke managed to avoid any response. He slid the old man’s dinner plate and pudding dish on to the tray and took them into the kitchen to wash. Whilst he waited for the water from the tap to run hot, he looked round at the familiar sink and the familiar kitchen, reviving memories of his boyhood here. He tried to relieve his frustration by reminding himself of the man that querulous old bigot out there had once been and what he owed to him.

  Yet the memories brought not the comfort he had sought but a tumbling anger against the man who had been a boy here with him. Why the hell couldn’t Adam at least pop in here regularly to see the old man who adored him? Why couldn’t he at least keep his promises, instead of leaving others to pick up the pieces? Why should Luke collect only drudgery and contempt whilst Adam cruised through life and picked off its prizes?

  EIGHT

  There were others as well as Harry Cassidy who had recorded the afternoon’s Gerry Clancy show.

  At ten fifteen that night, after DCI Percy Peach had put Tommy Bloody Tucker in his place by watching programmes he considered more important, he sat with the new Mrs Peach and watched his chief’s ordeal by interview.

  ‘He’s not getting a fair hearing,’ said Lucy after a few minutes.

  They watched the rest of the show in silence, apart from one or two muffled oaths from Percy. There was a pause at the end before he said, ‘Tucker was bloody anxious to get himself on the telly. He couldn’t wait to get himself sitting next to the man who plays Alec Dawson.’

  ‘That’s probably down to his wife. She’s a great fan of the series.’

  Peach marvelled anew at the capacity of women to know trivia that would have taken men much effort to discover. ‘Well, I hope Brunnhilde Barbara is well pleased with what she’s done to the poor sod.’

  ‘I should think she still thinks Adam Cassidy is marvellous. She’ll probably think her husband should have stood up for himself better.’

  ‘I’d have to support her on that. It might be the first thing Brunnhilde Barbara and I have ever agreed upon. And probably the last.’

  Lucy said thoughtfully, ‘He’s right about the militant Muslim element. With thirty thousand in the town, there are bound to be a tiny number of fanatics among them. Once an ideology like that gets hold of young men, we’re in trouble.’

  He glanced quickly sideways at her, then said as casually as he could, ‘You making any progress with your investigations?’

  She paused, considering her reply carefully; she knew that despite his relaxed manner, he worried about her involvement with ruthless people like this. ‘We’ve identified a couple of cells of militants. The trouble is, we need to find the people in the background who are pulling the strings. Those men are both more dangerous and more elusive – like drug barons, but bent on violence rather than profit. They’re probably not even in the town. Maybe not even in the country.’

  ‘You just go carefully, girl.’ It was a fatuous warning, but he was like an anxious parent, needing to voice his concern. He watched a politician trying not to answer Jeremy Paxman’s questions about tax cuts and decided that Tommy Bloody Tucker had had it easy. He let his hand steal slowly across to Lucy’s knee then on to the delicious thigh above it. ‘Sometimes we need to draw the curtains and forget all about the dangerous world out there.’

  She leant against him and dropped her head on to his shoulder. ‘We’re pretty good at shutting the world out, aren’t we?’

  ‘We are indeed.’ He brought a second hand to the task in hand: a body like Lucy’s definitely warranted both hands. ‘A man has his needs!’ he murmured softly into her perfectly shaped ear.

  ‘And isn’t a woman allowed to have hers?’ she said drowsily.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Norah!’ said Percy, suddenly sitting bolt upright. It was his favourite expression of mock outrage. ‘If you’re determined to take me again, I can’t deny you your rights, I suppose.’

  He was in bed within three minutes, growling his approval as she disrobed swiftly in the chilly bedroom.

  Ten days later, as December moved into its second week, the big stores watched the rising tide of Christmas trade and wondered whether the much trumpeted economic recovery would declare itself in the retail trade figures.

  In the studios at Manchester, the final touches had been put to the last episode of the current Alec Dawson series. There was no party, as there might have been after a successful stage production. Many of the cast had already departed to other assignments; most of the supporting technical staff such as camera operators and continuity girls were now engaged in other television work.

  In the office of ITV’s senior producer, James Walton, an unexpectedly difficult meeting was in progress. There were only three people involved: Walton himself, the series director Joe Hartley, and Adam Cassidy as its star. They had met to confirm the final arrangements for the next series. Walton had expected this to be a matter of the three of them formally approving a series of decisions he had already made about the organization of shooting and the casting of the series. With his long experience and status in television, Walton prided himself on being able to anticipate snags and r
emedy things quickly, but he hadn’t foreseen any of this. A star being prickly was the last thing he needed just now.

  It was Joe Hartley who raised the matter of casting, when they had finished their review of the series just completed. ‘One of the problems of casting has been the need to find completely different personnel for each episode, except for Alec Dawson himself and one or two minor supporting roles. As you know, we’ve agreed two major changes which should help to remedy this. The first is to give our leading man a permanent girlfriend, instead of a succession of damsels in distress who are saved from either death itself or a fate which used to be considered much worse than death. The second is to build in a major figure who consistently pits his wits against Dawson’s, instead of a series of villains who are outsmarted episode by episode. A sort of Napoleon of crime, like Moriarty in the Sherlock Holmes stories. It will build up the status of our hero to be pitting his own meagre resources against a man who can command huge forces. The implication will be that this monster’s fortune and his heavies come from drugs, but that won’t be made explicit. Pictures of coke and heroin addicts would be too squalid for a fast-moving, escapist series like this.’

  Walton nodded. ‘I agree with that. We need to keep the right note in the new series. That isn’t easy, when people see realistic policing all the time in programmes like The Bill. These moves will also make casting easier, as well as hopefully keeping it within budget.’ He couldn’t prevent himself glancing quickly at Adam Cassidy, whose agent had secured a major rise in his already astronomical salary for the new series. ‘The overall cost of one major villain and one heroine rather than a series of each should make us a saving. And we seem to have competent people already in place for these roles.’

  ‘Really?’ Adam, who had been waiting for this moment, was pleased with his timing as he came in with the single word. The looks of surprise and apprehension on the faces of his companions showed how telling it had been.