by Celia Imrie
Jason threw his hands up. ‘I haven’t got a bloody clue what Stan thinks. In fact, Suzy, I would loathe to know what Stan thinks. The very thought of what goes through the mind of that lump of blubber which passes for a man, well, I …’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘There are no words.’
Suzy thought that Jason sounded rather plausible. But she also knew that he was a good actor.
She said quietly, ‘Can you prove you had nothing to do with the money thing?’
‘No, Suzy, I can’t prove anything. I can only give you my word. I can show you my passports, my French one in the name Jacques Scott – the same name as is on my English bank account – and take you online to show you my very modest balance. That’s my real name of course, not Jason Scott, which might explain how I was not targeted, while being used as a scapegoat. I always use my stage name when filling in forms for the theatre, but for real life I stick to my real name. Jacques Scott.’
‘I thought it was Jacques Barry?’
‘Berry. But I told you, when my father buggered off, I changed it to my mother’s maiden name – Scott.’ Jason took a step forward and pulled two passports from his pocket.
‘I didn’t want to have to do this – prove myself to you, but …’ He opened them up at the details page. One was French, with the name Jacques Scott Berry; the other English, with the name Jason Scott.
‘How was that allowed? They wouldn’t just let you make up a name. This is a fake.’
‘No. I had my Equity card, my mother’s birth certificate, everything they needed. I’m an actor, Suzy, like you. I grub around for work and live on the edge, never knowing where the next penny will come from. I certainly don’t have the kind of funds you need to open a Swiss bank account. And that brief twenty-four hours was the only time I’ve ever spent in Switzerland in my entire life. But that’s all irrelevant, Suzy. Look. I can’t argue with you any more on this subject. But one thing I can do is help you find Stan, who I know is a key player in the whole horrible Zurich disaster.’
‘Rather than “find him”, don’t you really mean lead me to him right now?’
‘For once and for all, Suzy. The last time I was in touch – if that is the word – with Stan Arbuthnot was at that horrible so-called producer’s party. And it was because of Stan’s vile antics that we were all doomed. If you find the fat slob, let me know. I really do want to talk to him. I thought I’d got the police on to them. But clearly he evaded that, like his pal, Appenzell. But, for God’s sake, Suzy, please don’t leave me alone with Stan because if you did I could not be held responsible for my actions.’
Jason was so impassioned that Suzy was inclined to believe him.
‘Why do you want to talk to Stan in front of me, Jason? Have you both prepared a little scene for my benefit?’
Jason put his face in his hands. ‘Sod it, Suzy. Be serious. I have to ask Stan a few things about that party. Last I heard of him he was doing his drama-queen thing and squealing like a stuck pig.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look, Suzy, I haven’t told you the truth about what really happened. But there’s a good reason. If that vile man is onboard this ship I have to find him. And, then, we should get the police on to him. Have them waiting to pick him up at the dock in New York and throw him somewhere dark and miserable where he won’t be free for the rest of his sick, perverted life.’
This new turn took Suzy aback. She spoke slowly, knowing that she was near to reaching something new, something which could be the truth.
‘Why would they pick him up, Jason? Filching money out of people’s accounts? Wouldn’t that incriminate you too?’
Jason took a step back. His lips tightened and he shook his head. His hand reached out and grabbed the back of the chair.
As Suzy leaned forward, she watched the colour drain from Jason’s face. He became so pale she feared he might faint.
‘What did Stan do, Jason?’
‘We find him first. Get him to confess.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Suzy stood up and faced Jason. ‘First you will tell me everything you know. The whole truth this time. And you will tell me now.’
Jason bit his lip. ‘I can’t prove anything, Suzy. That’s the problem. But I know what I saw.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Something very bad happened at that producer’s party. It’s why I left. And also why I ended up having the fight with Reg on the doorstep. Because when I tried to tell Reg he wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Why?’
‘You tell me?’ Jason shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s into the same thing. Maybe he was just so desperate to get the money out of that vile, disgusting alleged producer, Mr Appenzell, that he was willing to throw his conscience to the wind.’
‘You’re going off the subject, Jason.’
‘No, I’m not. But we have to challenge Stan.’
‘Challenge?’
‘I need to see his reaction when I accuse him.’
‘Accuse him of what, Jason? The bank thefts?’
Jason’s knuckles showed white on his fists. He bashed one fist into his palm, and growled. Suzy took a step back. His intensity scared her.
‘What is Stan supposed to have done, Jason?’
Jason put his face into his hands and sobbed.
‘No “supposed” about it. Stan Arbuthnot,’ he cried, ‘… is … is … a paedophile.’
*
After tea Amanda returned to her cabin to find a note under her door asking her to go as soon as possible to the purser’s office. There she was handed a message from her son, asking for the code to get into her lock-up in Aardvark Storage. She looked at the time on the message and tried to work out how long ago it was sent. Might he still be there? Could she get a reply to him? If only texting worked from mid-Atlantic.
There was only one solution: she asked whether it was ever possible to make a phone call to the UK?
The steward behind the desk slid her a paper with a list of charges. Ship-to-shore satellite call $12 per minute.
What else could she do? She was taken behind the counter into a back office where she phoned Mark, who was sitting in the empty removal lorry, heading away from the storage facility. She gave him the number and, when he wanted to elongate the call with a string of abuse about the solicitors and the storage firm, she put her finger on the red button to cut the call. Why pay $12 a minute to listen to a tirade?
After this Amanda arrived late at the theatre for the magic show but her pals had managed to get there early enough to secure very good seats and they had saved one for her.
As she sank down into the red plush, she sighed with relief. What a day!
Tyger, Liliane and Myriam chatted eagerly about their own days onboard. Tyger had gone to an art class in the basement, while Liliane and Myriam braved the open decks to try their hands at shuffleboard.
‘We found two ancient old geezers up there,’ puffed Myriam. ‘We tempted them into a game and fleeced them.’
‘A pity we didn’t ’ave money on the game,’ said Liliane. ‘Les pauvres! Zey didn’t ’ave a chance against us women.’
‘We asked the old blighters to join us for tea, but, don’t you know, they were so tired or doggone ashamed at being beat by us, that they turned us down.’
‘When we were young we all played ze silly game of losing to men. Now not so much. Zey simply cannot adjust.’
Amanda laughed.
‘What is it with men these days? No stamina.’ Myriam let out a dramatic sigh. ‘L’amour, l’amour! It’s not how it used to be in my younger day.’ She turned towards Amanda, lowered her brow and pursed her lips. ‘What is your secret to catching a man, Amanda? Your companion at tea was very illegible.’
Mercifully, at that moment, the house lights dimmed.
A ripple of excitement passed across the audience as a tight spotlight created a bright circle on the red velvet curtains.
Arturo the Luminoso stepped out on to the stage. His hair was slicked back, his features calm. He
was dressed in immaculate white tie and tails with brightly polished patent shoes.
As he walked forward cards kept appearing from his clothing, from his sleeves and jacket pocket; he stooped to pull more which seemed to drop from the tails of his jacket.
Arturo made a very comical sight as he tried to catch all the cards, throwing some into the air so that he could grab each new batch which kept leaping from his clothing.
When the deluge of cards came to an end, and the whole black shiny stage was littered with them, Arturo stood still in the centre of the space, shrugged and said, ‘So now you know why I don’t work with cards!’
He looked suddenly shocked. His jaw dropped, his mouth opened, revealing an egg. He pulled this from his lips, as another instantly appeared. Three more eggs seemed to pop through his fingers. Egg after egg, until he had an armful.
‘Eggs too can be a problem!’
He shuffled to the back of the stage. The curtains opened and he went through just as a huge brightly coloured box was wheeled on.
Holding a small leather lead which was attached to the box’s side, Arturo strolled back into the main stage area.
‘Here, boxy, boxy. Walkies!’ he called, in a voice usually reserved for addressing dogs. ‘And sit!’
The box came to a halt.
‘Anyone here want to divide and rule?’
The audience was silent.
‘I only want to chop you up into two. You don’t mind, do you?’
He surveyed the rows of seats.
A few people put their hands up. Amanda turned to see that Myriam was one of them.
Arturo walked to the other side of the stage, then turned back, his finger pointing towards Amanda.
‘Our dance was sadly interrupted. Would you like to waltz into the box and disappear?’
Amanda shook her head violently. She did not want to do anything onstage. In fact she felt very disturbed that a spotlight was illuminating her in her seat in the auditorium.
Arturo tilted his head.
‘Your friend, perhaps?’
Amanda turned to Myriam, who was leaning out of her seat, desperate to be picked. But Arturo’s finger was pointing to her other side, towards Liliane, who was making little finger gestures indicating no.
Arturo came to the corner of the stage, bent low in front of her and a large bouquet of flowers appeared in his hand.
‘Madame, please do me the pleasure.’ He smiled at Amanda and Myriam. ‘I promise you I will bring your friend back to you in one piece.’
Blushing, Liliane stood up, took Arturo’s hand and followed him on to the stage.
‘Darn it,’ sighed Myriam. ‘I really wanted to try that.’
As she came on to the stage, Liliane winced back towards her friends.
‘She can mug all she wants.’ Myriam shrugged. ‘It should have been me!’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies,’ said Arturo. ‘I would like to introduce you to …?’ He looked towards Liliane. ‘Good lord, here I am about to make you vanish, and I don’t even know your name. However would I call you back?’
He turned to the box and opened it up.
‘A perfectly ordinary coffin – I’m sorry – I mean box. Though perhaps a little garish for some people’s taste. But I am Italian, what care I for the taupe and beige of northern Europe style magazines. I am from the land of colour, heat and light. Viva rosso, viva verdi, viva giallo, viva d’oro!’
As Amanda watched she found it hard to equate this confident showman with the quivering wreck of a man who had dropped before her on the dance floor last night, waving his rabbit’s foot. Maybe he was one of those people you read about who only really come to life when onstage.
Arturo guided Liliane up some steps.
‘Now you have to go up into the box. It’s not hard. Even a zombie could do it.’
Liliane pulled another grimace and the audience laughed.
‘Have a little peek around. Comfy, eh?’ As Liliane stood in the box, Arturo swirled it round. The whole equipment was clearly on castors, but by turning it a full circle everyone in the audience could see that there was no secret way out of the back.
‘Pardon me, Signora. I have now to lock you inside. You do not suffer from claustrophobia, I hope?’
Liliane winced again, and shook her head.
With a sweeping gesture, Arturo closed the doors. He then strode across the stage and took a walking stick from someone sitting in the front row, with the quip: ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get it back before the end.’
He used the stick to bar the front of the box, then pulled both knobs to demonstrate that the door could not be opened.
Again he swirled the box.
Then he reached into a large trunk and pulled out a sledgehammer. He made much of lumbering over the stage, finding it too hard to carry in one hand.
‘I am not a strong man,’ he said, as he tied the sledgehammer to a chain. ‘I usually exploit my brains rather than my brawn.’ He turned back to the box. ‘Are you all right in there, Signora?’
Liliane’s voice, faint and muffled, said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Arturo, turning to the audience. ‘And now I am going to do another trick in which I get the sledgehammer to transform itself into a feather duster.
Liliane could be heard inside the box crying, ‘Please let me out now.’
Arturo pulled a magic wand from his pocket, and waved it in the direction of the box. ‘Madame! You will now fall asleep and remember nothing.’ He swirled the wand in the air, but meanwhile more magic wands kept on coming, multiplying and multiplying, wands seemingly appearing between his fingers, from his jacket, down his sleeves, until Arturo was grasping a whole armful of wands which spilled over on to the stage. He threw them all upwards and they rained down over the ground around him. Arturo now tried to walk forward but slipped and slithered on the treacherous bed of wands beneath his feet. He staggered backwards, and jerked forward, in the midst of which, as he landed flat on his backside, he somehow dislodged the sledgehammer.
From his seated position, Arturo’s face registered shock. He tried to scramble to his feet, but remained like a cartoon character, his legs paddling, while he slid back and forth, all the while crying out, ‘Watch out, Signora! Attenzione! Duck!’
But it was too late. The sledgehammer swung to the other side of the stage. It crashed into the proscenium arch, and, out of control, having picked up speed, it was heading directly for the coloured box.
Arturo was on his feet now, staggering and sliding on the slippery floor of wands, grabbing out to catch the swinging hammer.
Amanda found her mind racing.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
As the hammer hit, slamming into the side of the box with enormous force, the audience gasped.
The coloured box shattered and littered the stage with many shards of painted wood.
A woman behind Amanda actually screamed.
Amanda knew that Liliane had to be hurt. What would happen next? How could they get the poor woman to hospital? Were there enough medical staff onboard to deal with a catastrophe like this? Was there an operating theatre?
‘It’s never done that before!’ said Arturo, his voice quite a few tones higher than it had been at the start of the act. He ran up the steps to where the box had once stood. He knelt on the floor and scraped around in the remains murmuring, ‘Signora? Signora?’
Amanda couldn’t breathe. The audience around her were now silent, leaning forward. No one dared blink.
The terrified silence was shattered by a loud snoring noise, coming from one of the audience seats, stage right.
Arturo jumped to his feet and ran to the side of the stage.
He stood at the edge of the platform, looking down, his hands on his hips.
‘Now, Signora! Could you tell me how the devil you got there and, more importantly, how could you fall asleep during my act?’
A spotlight swung round, revealing Liliane, curled up
in the featured seat, sleeping like a baby.
Arturo clicked his fingers and Liliane opened her eyes and stretched.
Amanda realised that she had been holding her breath for over a minute. She inhaled deeply and sat back in her chair as Liliane smiled and yawned, like a kitten waking from an afternoon nap.
13
When Jason had gone off to work for the night, heading first to the head ghost to excuse his absence at the tea dance due to a blinding migraine, Suzy tried to digest everything he had told her. She was in shock.
Jason had made some startling revelations.
From what she knew of the characters involved, everything did add up. It could possibly be that everything he had said was some grand guignol creation, but her instincts told her not.
If the tale Jason had just told her was true, it was apocalyptic news.
Before making any decisions about how to take it further, Suzy decided to run the whole thing through in her head once more, looking for gaps in logic or practical reasons why the story Jason had told her might not be the truth.
She pulled off her shoes and sat at her desk.
According to Jason, their Zurich producer Herr Appenzell had asked Reg to bring the youngest boy he could lay his hands on to party in his private flat. Reg had commanded Jason to attend. Suzy had been there at the fondue house when the call came through.
For the sake of the whole acting company, the producer must be buttered up and cajoled, Reg had told Jason, because, as yet, the man hadn’t coughed up any money at all, and until he did, no one would be paid.
Hearing this news about the unpaid fees had set alarm bells off with Jason. He knew that, back home, producers were obliged to deposit the wages money up front, even before rehearsals started. But he also knew that, when you worked on the fringes of the theatre, anything might be considered acceptable, including actors being expected to work for nothing. Usually when that happened, the lack of cash was put out in the open and agreed to by the actors beforehand.
In the case of The Importance of Being Earnest everyone had signed a contract which included being paid a full Equity wage, plus expenses. The plane tickets to and from Zurich would be provided by the management.
