Crystal Balls

by Amanda Brobyn

  The room is sparse with no window and poor lighting, and looking around I wonder if it’s deliberate – that way I can’t see the flea-invested shithole for what it really is. I asked my agent to arrange clean but basic accommodation not too far from the filming location and, after nearly breaking my neck on the stairs and tripping over on the worn carpet, I’d say that ‘basic’ is a massive understatement.

  Throwing the holdall on the floor, I flop on to the bed as the tiredness takes over. Staring at the stained ceiling I wonder if I missed any last-minute office jobs before I locked up. I intended to set off just after seven so I could arrive here chilled and mentally unwound but instead I found a plethora of jobs to do, jobs I actually thought I’d done, but thank heavens I found them all before Chantelle did. I’m not in her good books lately. She told me I’ve appeared a bit lost recently and for once I couldn’t deny it. I used to be so efficient, too efficient it was once said, and when it came to having a clear desk policy, mine was literally that, clear and orderly and completely organised behind the scenes. As of late I keep finding bits and pieces of work that I swear I’ve already done or messages on bits of paper that I meant to give to Chantelle or Heather, but didn’t.

  Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ve had a business to run and lines to learn.

  That’s why I’m glad of this break. I need time away from the office and am so determined to enjoy this experience like no other. After all, it will be my last. A few episodes and it will all be over and at least I can say I did it! I lived the dream that so many others allow to fizzle out. Not me.

  “How are you feeling, Tina? It’s been a long time.” Gerry kisses me on both cheeks and I relax immediately. A friendly face. I’m so glad he’s met me here, given I know no-one else. I feel like the new girl joining school mid-term when everyone else is in their cliques with already established friendships while she stands back praying someone will invite her to join their gang. Usually the nerds. No-one picks a freckled face to be in the coolest gang. At least they never did.

  “Like a wet rag, Gerry.” I arch my back with discomfort.

  I spent the night fidgeting and shifting around to avoid being impaled by a ferocious mattress spring. My body feels tender and delicate and my head feels like it’s taken a blow. It has, from a rock-hard pillow.

  “Do you have the call sheet for this week?” I enquire.

  “I want to introduce you to the assistant director first. He’s organised a read-through for this morning and then some of you will be going off-site to do some practical training.” Gerry scans the room, waving across at a tall, stocky guy who waves back.

  Sounds exciting!

  “What sort of practical training?”

  “I’m not sure, Tina. But you can ask him yourself.”

  He leads me over to the AD and introduces me.

  “Nice to meet you, Tina.” Nick Hand smiles warmly. “Sorry I didn’t get to meet you at the casting. I must have just missed you.”

  He seems to be a decent enough guy and not at all intimidating like some directors can be. “Yes, I nearly never made it,” I explain earnestly.

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” he replies absently, striding off with those long legs of his.

  “Oh.” I watch him disappear. “I’ll ask him about the practical stuff later.”

  “The contract, Tina, I need you to sign it.” Gerry removes a plastic wallet from his briefcase and pulls out two typed contracts. “I’ve checked it over and there’s nothing too onerous in there but you might want to fax it to your lawyer for the once-over.”

  My imaginary lawyer on my imaginary holiday. Erm . . . no, thanks.

  “It’s okay, thanks, Gerry, I trust you!” I laugh, eyeing him suspiciously. My instinct tells me this is not a good move and normally this contract would be scrutinised with a fine eye but what choice do I have? He’s never let me down before and right now I don’t have anyone I can ask to check this over. This entire project needs to remain top secret until I find the right moment to announce it, preferably before it’s aired. In fact, if I thought I could get away with it, I’d never tell a soul. This is about me, achieving my dreams and putting closure on them.

  Before the read-through I take time out to digest the characteristics of Balmy. I must have looked rough on the day of the audition because they’ve cast me as a dowdy, frumpy, late-twenties weirdo whose wardrobe consists of charity-shop cast-offs and freebies. Her outlook on life is pretty disturbed for a relatively young woman – she refuses to spend money on clothes or luxuries and her motto is ‘You go out the way you came in’. With nothing! I can see her point entirely but surely witnessing just how short life is she’d want to make the most of it, and of herself. That’s one thing we don’t have in common. I’ve come to terms with the necrophiliac theme (to a degree), and now the more I read the more excited I become at the prospect of playing Balmy. It’s a total challenge for me, plus I get to practise applying make-up to dummies and reliving my Girl’s World ‘Styling Head’ days. How fantastic is that?

  “Okay, everyone, can I have your attention, please!” Nick shouts assertively. “Tina, Raymond, Hattie and Cyril, your car is outside waiting to take you to the funeral home.”

  What? “What?” It leaves my lips in horror.

  “It’s part of the practical.” Nick shrugs. “How can you learn to embalm without firsthand experience?”

  The hairs on my arms stand on end and a shiver runs down my spine.

  Raymond, my onscreen fiancé, whispers in my ear. “It’s in the contract.”

  I glare at him, cursing inwardly that I’ve actually got to kiss him. Nobody likes a know-it-all.

  The reception is bright and airy with pale wooden flooring and bright red walls. It bears no resemblance to my perception of a funeral home: black, dark and foul-smelling. Vases of fresh flowers emit a tingling scent and mellow pipe music plays soothingly in the background. Walled art hangs here and there, with marked prices displayed beneath each picture – the work is truly beautiful and as I move in to take a closer look it becomes apparent that the artists are deceased. Their names and dates of death are clearly marked below, leaving only a legacy of talent, a reflection of their thoughts captured in a montage of colour. I swallow hard. I’m no good with death. In fact, I think I’d go so far as to say I have a phobia about it. So often I’ll lie awake at night wondering how I’ll cope if any of my family or Kate dies and countless times I have cried myself to sleep with morose fatigue. On the rare occasions I have lost somebody, like my grandma, I didn’t sleep for fear she might pay me a visit. Much as I loved her, I wouldn’t want to see her as a ghost or anything other than what she was when she was alive and well. I’ve lost aunts, uncles and grandparents on both sides and on every occasion I swear a picture has moved or a piece of jewellery I’d lost suddenly turns up.

  Hattie and Cyril play the directors of the funeral parlour and, like their characters, they’re both in their early sixties and extremely pleasant to talk to.

  “How come you guys are so calm?” I ask them, nervously shuffling from one leg to the other as we wait for the real business owner to introduce himself.

  Hattie sweeps back her dark brown hair, lifting it away from her face to reveal silvery white roots. “You get hardened to it.” She shrugs. “By the time you reach our ages you’ve lost relatives, friends, friends of friends and neighbours.” She gives a half-smile. “Besides, death is the only thing in life that really is inevitable.”

  Thanks for that depressing note.

  A door in the back wall opens and a grey-haired gentleman rushes towards us with his hand extended. “Frank Bolton. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” he apologises before shaking our hands one by one. Except for mine.

  I pull back and stare at his hand, refusing to shake it. I’m sorry but I just can’t.

  “Has it . . . you know . . . touched one of them?”

  Thankfully he’s not offended and simply nods. His face is kind and sincere
, almost sympathetic.

  “Well, yes, it has, but I’ve washed my hands thoroughly.” He offers them for close inspection.

  “Don’t be offended if I don’t, will you?” I look up at him through my long eyelashes trying to win him over, ensuring he knows not to take it personally.

  “In this game you learn not to be easily offended, Miss.” He opens the door to take us through to the back where it all happens. “But if you won’t touch my hand, Miss, I do wonder how are you going to cope as the day progresses.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Gerry,” I mutter under my breath as I step cautiously through the door. “Nothing onerous”? Bloody idiot.

  Frank Bolton carves the path and we follow him down a corridor with doors leading off it to each side. For some reason I’m holding my breath but I’m not sure how long I can sustain it. He turns around. “Are you okay, Miss?”

  I refuse to breathe out in case I get possessed when I breathe in again. I’ve seen it happen in horror films. The dead bodies manifest themselves into apparitions and find a way to draw strength by possessing any living human and sapping away their energies.

  “Mmm,” I nod, but my head feels light and my chest tightens. Breathe, Tina, breathe! I exhale what little air I have left and, in a microsecond, draw a short breath of new air.

  We stop outside a white door which Frank opens with a key from his pocket and my legs turn to jelly at the thought of my worst nightmare realising itself. I feel physically ill.

  “Is there . . . anyone . . . in there?” I ask trembling.

  Frank turns to answer, half in and half out of the doorway, keeping it ajar with his foot. “There is someone resting in here, Miss.”

  He pushes the door wide open and the others make their way inside. He waits like a gentleman for me to pass by him but I freeze, incapable of moving, and the art of putting one foot in front of the other seems to have been deleted from my motor skills.

  “I’m sorry, Miss but I’m simply doing what I have been briefed to do with you all.” He looks a little uncomfortable.

  I nod. I know, and that’s all very well if you don’t mind being around dead people but it’s not exactly natural. Who would want to be in a place like this? They’re dead, discoloured and damn scary and much as I love the thrill of Touche Éclait and Urban Decay, applying them to a bunch of stiffs is not quite what I had in mind – it’s sacrilege, never mind totally sick.

  You have to do it, Tina, or you’ll be axed on your first day. It’s all in the name of art, remember.

  But I can’t breathe, never mind make up a stiff!

  Put it down to research and get on with it!

  I bolt upright as the potent scent hits me and I taste its odour in my mouth as it travels through my open airways. I scan the room for a reminder of where I am and what I’m doing lying flat on this brightly coloured carpet. Oh Jesus! Then the penny drops and the reality hits me once more. I saw it. Him. A dead person lying there. Cold and stiff. I don’t remember much after that.

  “Smelling salts.” Frank shows me the sachet which brought me around so abruptly.

  He bends down to assist me to stand up but I can’t bear for him nor anyone associated with this place to touch me.

  My bare hands are in contact with the carpet and I draw them up in a flash. Who knows its previous occupants? It might well have provided a temporary resting place while the steel beds were being prepared. I try to get up touching nothing or no-one but my legs don’t have the strength to act with such muscular isolation and I’m beginning to feel faint once more. I attempt to repress the feeling of retching by grabbing the salts from his hand, trying to avoid any direct contact with his skin, and I shove them under my nose for distraction. Stay calm. Breathe. No! Don’t breathe! I don’t know whether to hold my breath and pass out again, putting a temporary end to this nightmare, or take enough of a breath to lend me time to escape from this hellhole. I’m an actress and am all for research but this is totally crazy and unnecessary – they’re dead, for Christ’s sake – what use are they to any of us?

  Frank and my fellow cast members stand around, peering down at me doing nothing and saying nothing. Bloody idiots. Help me up or something. I stretch out a shaky hand to Raymond, inviting him to pull me up, I only hope that he hasn’t been near it while I’ve been in La La Land. He pulls me up, placing his arm around my waist while I steady myself, perhaps a little too tightly but I can’t tell him to ease off unless I open my mouth and that just isn’t going to happen and neither do I have the co-ordination to slap him.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” His other arm sweeps across my stomach sitting high on my ribcage where it stays firmly put and I’m propped safely from both sides.

  Pervert.

  “Would you like to try again, Miss?” Frank asks awkwardly. “Perhaps you could watch your colleagues and take on a more, erm, observing role?”

  “Hhmm.” My head moves from side to side in a ‘no’ action although the muffled sound comes across as more of a yes.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, was that a yes or a no?”

  That’s it. There’s nothing for it but to run as fast as my legs will take me. I can no longer spend another second sharing this toxic and polluted air. My legs sprint with Olympic speed towards the exit and I imagine I’m being chased by a poltergeist to spur me on – I could be for all I know. It can happen to people with psychic abilities.

  Bolting through the corridor, past the reception area and straight out of the front door, I dart through the busy streets oblivious to the strange looks, yelling apologies to those I bump into like an out-of-control dodgem. I run and run until the oxygen supply is cut off from my legs and I collapse to the ground, gasping for breath and panting uncontrollably. Of all the situations to be faced with, of all the parts to land it had to include a bloody trip to a funeral parlour! My worst nightmare.

  I shudder as I relive the moment where the body was unveiled, its blue protective blanket pulled back to expose a man that once was. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not without my sympathy for him and his family but there is something not quite right about associating with people once they’re dead.

  I’ll tell you one thing for certain, I am never going to one of those places again. Not even when I’m dead!

  “Silence on set, please!” Nicks yells. “Roll camera . . . and sound!”

  The clapper-board slams together.

  “Take three . . . Action!”

  Raymond as Craig goes down on bended knee, pulling a box from his pocket. His made-up face is menacing and dark circles are painted beneath his eyes but his smart work attire steers you away from thinking he’s anything more than menacing.

  “Balmy . . .” He looks up at me innocently. “I love you . . . will you marry me?” He opens the box, displaying its contents in the rehearsed direction of the camera, angled for a head-on view. I gasp with amazement and hold the position, trying not to blink or show any indicative emotion. The viewing public must have no idea what the answer is as we end episode one with this magnificent cliffhanger.

  “Cut!” Nick claps his hands. “Well done, you guys. Only three takes.”

  I pull Raymond to his feet, grateful to him for not grassing me up to Nick. Neither Hattie nor Cyril have mentioned my little episode and fingers crossed that all three of them will continue on their silent journey.

  Raymond and I wander across to the green room which is laid out with catering-sized flasks of tea, coffee and calorific snacks galore. In fact, every production I have ever worked on has had catering facilities which go for overkill – it’s a wonder that any actors are slim. I cast my eyes over the pastries, wondering whether to risk it. Just one perhaps? Although if I’m not careful I could very well end up massive by the end of our shoot. Balmy could transform from being dowdy and frumpy, to dowdy, frumpy and fat.

  “Where are you staying then, Tina?” Raymond piles his plate with an assortment of biscuits.

  “The Anchor.” I squirm with embarrassment.
“It’s the pits.”

  “Poor you!” He tuts with genuine concern, dunking a biscuit into his tea.

  How common.

  “Most of us are at the Ambassador – why don’t you join us?”

  I suppose I could. I barely slept a wink last night fighting off mattress coil after mattress coil and even after a long shower I feel like I’m still wearing the mattress and carrying its plague on my skin. “How much is it?” I chance a plain biscuit, nibbling at it to make it last.

  “Sixty quid including breakfast – it’s a concessionary rate for the cast and crew and it’s within walking distance of here and staggering distance of the pub!” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve to remove the damp crumbs and I watch as they splay on to the studio floor.

  “That’s not too bad actually. I’m paying forty to be in Fawlty Towers.”

  My hand hovers over the machine as I wait to punch in the pin code. It sounds four high-pitched bleeps as I hit the keys.

  Packed and eager to leave, I sit with my holdall at my feet and I drift into a daydream of lying in a hot soapy bath, ridding my skin of its filthy tarnish, bathing the coil marks with a moisturising glove of steaming water.

  “Sorry, love, but this card has been declined.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This says declined – do you have another card?”

  Her hair is greasy and scraped back from her face in a style much too young for a woman of her ageing years and heavy facial lines. Her eyes narrow with an uncomfortable tightness.