by Zack
“Just checking,” the apparition growled. “Please stay where you are.”
Gil had the feling that the man found the word “please” hard to say, like he never used it.
Boots thumped across to the doorway connecting to the spare bedroom, back door, kitchen, and bathroom, a flurry of black leather over combat fatigues, shaved head, bleak eyes. Then back again and down the hallway to the front bedroom. Gil blinked in amazement and a sense of outrage.
A few moments later he heard more footfalls and Mike appeared, apology plastered all over his face.
“What the hell was that?”
“Sorry Gil. I had no idea that would happen. That was Greg the minder, and that’s the first time I heard him utter a word, and this …” He looked back into the front hall and a familiar boy with a bouffant flop of straight black hair and flashing golden eyes walked confidently into the sitting room with a swagger and a glance around of unvarnished curiosity. His eyes fell on Gil, who stood by the television up on the raised section. “Gil, this is Nathan.”
Since Mike had secured the job as second on the Terry Blood movie, Gil made a point of watching any performance by Nathan Cliffe, including his recent promo videos on Top of the Pops —introduced by that extraordinary British eccentric with long white hair and an unlit cigar—miming to his latest number one single. The actuality was something of a shock. At once, the boy seemed more real than on the screen, and yet diminished. For one thing, Gil could see at least three acne spots on his cheek and he seemed shorter. On the other hand, there was no disguising the assurance he oozed. Gil wasn’t at all sure he liked what he saw, and Nathan’s first words didn’t inspire much confidence.
“Hey! You must be the Yank.”
He strode past Mike, hand outstretched and bounded up the two steps to Gil’s level. The clatter of his shoes softened as he stepped smartly onto the Moroccan rug. Eyes wide open, Gil put out his hand automatically and shook Nathan’s. “Hi …”
“Nice little pad, Mikey.” Nathan went around and patted at the wall behind the television as though testing it for a weakness. He looked up and sniffed with professional disdain at the giant photograph of Gil and Mike taken in Rome.
Gil was aware of another bulky figure in the doorway, looking in with a surly expression. “I’ll be back in ninety minutes, no later,” the man spat out hoarsely with an undisguised stare of contempt at the room in general.
“See ya, Lewis,” Nathan called out with what sounded like false brightness. He glanced quickly at Gil as Lewis disappeared down the hall toward the front door and winked. “Damn driver, drives me nuts, ha ha!”
Mike looked up at Gil helplessly, but Gil didn’t see why he should offer any aid in the situation, if he didn’t know what to do next. Gil thought it was Mike’s problem. In the event, he needn’t have bothered. Nathan knew what he wanted.
“Where’s this famous bed of yours,” the kid said excitedly. He ran down to Mike and grabbed his arm.
He knows about our bed. The thought was vaguely depressing, but Gil said nothing. As Nathan dragged him out into the hallway, Mike glanced back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised … in apology or resignation? Gil heard the bedroom door slam shut, muffled voices through the thick wall, and then indeterminate noises, which soon subsided. He sank weakly onto the sagging sofa and stared frozenly at the muted news anchor. It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d ever sat out a sex session which involved his lover in this place, his home as well as Mike’s. Apart, they may have indulged with others, but in each other’s presence, never … until now. A rich, selfish, spoiled prick had come between them.
Gil’s imagination took over. He saw his beloved Mike slowly stripping Nathan, the boy’s hands exploring Mike’s lean and hard body, his fingers now feeling into every private nook and cranny. Mike is now licking that cutely upturned snub teenage nose while running his hand through the expensively layered and artfully disarranged hair. Nathan’s eyelids are half closed and his eyes ooze sex appeal from under such long lashes. Yes, he noticed those generous flutterers.
Mike is rubbing his thumb over the perky cock which juts up under the expensive material of the boy’s Calvin Kleins, even as Nathan pulls Mike in close, stiffening bump to bump. What are they doing now? Are they naked and sucking, sixty-nining, cross-rimming, fucking … who doing who?
Gil suddenly tore his jeans fly open, and reached down just in time to pull his cock free and cream furiously in his hand. He felt jealous and hugely aroused. He wanted Nathan desperately, hated the kid, was furious with Mike and could taste his sex as completely as though Mike’s cock was in his mouth, as it had been in Amsterdam.
When the door bell chimed some time later, Gil still lay in a slouch on the sofa, fly done up, and listened to the scuff of feet in the hallway, and a cheerily shouted “Byee, Gil!” followed by a few muted words and the door closing.
Gil let his head fall sideways on the sofa back to see Mike push sheepishly through the doorway. He sought Gil and looked into his eyes. Then he stepped up to the raised section and leaned over its edge so his hands rested on the arm of the sofa, inches from Gil’s head.
“Sorry. I didn’t know it would go like that.”
Gil tried to sound unconcerned, but he knew Mike could hear the dullness in his delivery. “Was he fun?”
Mike hung his head. “He wants to move in with us. Next time he wants you to join in.”
Gil sat forward and cupped his chin in his hands, elbows jabbed against his knees. “Mike, that’s Nathan Cliffe, superstar, teeny-bopper extraordinary. He ain’t a real human, Mike. He can’t come live with us. He shouldn’t even ever be here, not even for … ninety minutes—”
“He’s just saying it. I know he’s all brash and in your face, but underneath … I’m not so sure. I get the feeling I’m more like the older brother he’d have liked to hang around with but never had. Anyway, we didn’t do much.”
Gil looked at Mike again. “What’s not much?”
“Held him, cuddled, I suppose. He got hard, I stroked him a bit, but that was all. Actually, all he was up for.”
“Drunk?”
“Did he look drunk? No, he doesn’t touch alcohol. You remember I told you about the fixer guy at the studios, the one who did deals with James some time back?”
“Bundy, was it?”
“Gerald Mundy. Among other things I think he deals in drugs, and I’m convinced he’s the one been feeding Nathan coke, or something. In fact I think he’s trying to create a habit. Nate swears he hasn’t paid for anything. I just don’t see that fat pig doing anything for free, so he’s leading the kid on to use more and more of the stuff, and then I bet Nathan will have to start paying through the nose—”
“If he has a nose left. Isn’t cocaine supposed to sort of damage the nostrils?”
Mike shrugged. “I went and asked him—Mundy, I mean—outright the other day, but he denied knowing anything—”
“Shit, Mike! Isn’t that dangerous? Given what you know about him.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. It’s obvious he is doing it, and that so-called minder and his driver are in on it too. I bet Nate’s parents don’t know anything. Since the production got going, he’s been locked up tighter than an Arabian princess by the producers, even from his manager-father during the working day, so far as I can tell. It’s as though Mundy wants the boy to go into a meltdown, but that would only damage the movie.”
“If he’s like you say, he’s probably not thinking about that, just wants to get the boy hooked.” A thought popped into Gil’s forebrain. “If he’s so tightly locked up, how come you brought him home?” The smile in the corner of his lips sweetened the implication.
Mike got to his feet and stretched. “Because they’re in Mundy’s pay, if you ask me. Certainly they’re provided by the studio and not the Heathcliffs’ usual security details, so when Nathan gets all imperious with them, what’s it to them to let him off the hook for a little bit, so long as
they’re on the prowl outside? That’s how I work it out.” He stepped down to the floor level and single-handedly fumbled a cigarette from a packet of Gold Leaf on the dining table. “My visit to Mundy’s office did have one benefit.” He pulled something from his jeans pocket.
Gil peered down at the shiny objects in Mike’s palm glinting light reflections. Understanding hit him. “Those … they aren’t …”
Mike grinned and pocketed them. “They are.”
“You stole them! He’s bound to know.”
“Gil, they’re copies, courtesy Pinewood’s modeling department and your Plasticine.”
“Shit. What will you do?”
“Hopefully, I’ll get a chance to sniff around in there after he’s gone home.”
“Does he have a home?”
“Yes, a sewer somewhere. Well, only if the opportunity arises.” Mike lifted his arms in frustration. “I don’t know. What am I looking for? And what if there isn’t anything?”
Gil shook his head. “I think you’re getting too wound up with this kid when I bet he can look after himself real well.”
“At first I thought that too, but I’m not so sure. He’s vulnerable, and I wonder how things will be handled when Nathan makes an appearance in Blackpool next week. Henze had to allow for it in the contract because the concert was booked a year ago, apparently. I presume for the days involved he’ll be back under his dad’s thumb and security people.”
Gil looked faintly puzzled. “What’s this black pool all about?”
Mike laughed around the first puff of smoke. “It’s a place on the north-west coast, a seaside vacation town. I’ve no idea why Nathan wants perform there. When I asked him, he just said he’s always wanted to find out if it’s as awful as some of his friends told him. Besides, I suppose he has fans everywhere … even in Blackpool.”
“Will you be going?”
“No way! It’s nothing to do with me.”
“I am sorry to say, Michael, that you most certainly will accompany Nathan to this Blackpool concert. Mr. Kinder particularly detailed me to tell you that it is in your contract that you are responsible for Nathan Cliffe at all times.”
“The concert’s nothing to do with the shooting schedule.” Mike protested, but Wolfgang was in no mood to brook disobedience.
“There, you are wrong. It’s three days out of shooting, and we have to complete his scenes in the two weeks following, absolutely, or my head is on the cutting block. So I want my man on the spot to keep an eye on the boy and make sure he stays sensible. And you might take the opportunity to straighten him out. What has been happening? Hey? When we start shooting, Nathan is fine—if you forget he is fucking brat—his acting is … surprising. But not the last two weeks. Ever since the Fangball sequences he is playing up oddly. No good with the lines suddenly. Bitching at his fellow actors on set. Making like a prima donna with the camera operator. Kicking one of the grips for some silly reason …”
Mike hid the smile this raised. Nathan had lashed out at the big tough guy and called him a “dolly-boy” for some no-doubt snide aside the grips made.
Henze must have caught the slight twitch of the lips or glint in Mike’s eye. “This is serious Michael,” he shouted, “and is why you go to Blackpool. No argument!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mixing It with Sound
Gil struggled down narrow Meard Street to the Clifton Dubbing Center under the weight of five large film cans and a sheaf of mixing sheets. It was his second trip from the cutting rooms at Rex, although his editor Jasper helped with some of the cans on the first. Down in the warmth of the basement, the assistant mixer already had the six tracks and film laced up for the first reel of the program. Gil dropped the cans on a desk with a sigh of relief and went through into the theater to hand over his dubbing sheets to the mixer at his massive console with its “tits” and “pots,” the switches and faders to control the various sound tracks.
Settled on the few comfortable armchairs below and in front of the mixing desk, the producer Bill and Jasper went over last-minute notes. The mixer spread Gil’s sheets out and took a quick look through them. On the several broadsheets, the six sound tracks were shown as columns with penciled widths indicating the desired sound strength of each effect in relation to the others up to the maximum of a hundred percent. Fade-ins and outs were marked as long V-shapes and everything was controlled by showing the footage at which each effect started and ended. This correlated to the large footage counter below the big screen.
Gil pulled over a desk chair and settled at the end side where he had a good view of the mixing console, mixer, his assistant, and could still talk over the front edge of the desk to Jasper.
“Got any loops?” the assistant asked Gil.
“Uh, yeah, four. I’m waiting for Trevor up in Rex to bring them. Won’t need them for the first hundred foot or so, and he should be here soon.”
“You got hold of that kite call for the lonely bit, Gil” Jasper called up from below.
“Yeah. You were right, the BBC effects library came up with some. We made a long loop.”
“Okay, Bill,” the mixer called out, “let’s get cracking.”
They were some thirty foot down the program, with the two golfers preparing to tee-off on the second hole, when the heavy door to the theater opened quietly and Trevor slipped silently into the dark space with its low desk lamps, illuminated by the screen and the glowing footage counter below it. Trevor said something quietly to the mixing assistant and then came to sit close beside Gil. “Got half an hour off,” he whispered. “I already loaded the loops for them.”
On the screen a “cherry-picker” crane camera found the ball in the sky and followed it down to the green. It bounced and came to rest close to the hole. The screen cut to the spectators, but the ripple of applause crashed in far too loud. The dubbing mixer snapped at a switch. Sound and picture ground to a halt slowly, stopped in pause a second, and then rolled back to well before the point where the error occurred, slowed again and stopped. After a short pause, all the machines started up. A red light under the screen mirrored one on the console and when it turned green it indicated the machines out in the sound bay had all reached correct speed so the mixer could switch from playback into record and correct the incoming applause effect. Gil had learned the rudiments of this rock ’n’ roll dubbing back in California, but this was the first time he could sit with pride in his own work and watch the magic of a detailed sound track come to life, right down to the added dog barking excitedly, which Jasper wanted to emphasize a bit of the action.
Trevor nudged Gil’s knee under the cover of the sloped mixing desk. Gil said nothing, and Trevor worked his fingers up the thigh and began gently rubbing the growing hardness he found there. In the low light from the desk, Gil saw Trevor’s pleased smirk as he felt Gil getting bigger. For the next twenty minutes it felt like Gil was in the back seat of a theater, surreptitiously exchanging clothed jerk-offs with a school buddy while watching some inane movie.
And then the first reel was complete. Time for the coffee break and changeover. Time for Trevor to sidle off back over to Rex. Time for Gil to tackle Jasper about having some time off so he could go with Mike to Blackpool, which turned out easier than he’d thought.
“You done a good job of the sound, Gil, and there’s nothing much to do until after we get Henry Longhurst into the commentary box for the voice over later next week, so yes. Have a couple off.”
Tuesday June 8, 1982 had nothing very special to recommend itself, other than it was the last day of filming before the Brat’s Blackpool gig and Mike had noted on last night’s news that President Ronald Reagan was due to arrive on a state visit. “Your prez, Gil,” he said.
“Not mine. I didn’t vote for him.”
“That’s because you were too young.”
“Still wouldn’t have.”
The response left Mike mildly amused. It hadn’t ever occurred to him what his lover’s politics might a
ctually be. He struggled to recall anything and thought he was right that Reagan, apart from being 20th Century Fox Adonis of the Year, 1940, was a Republican, which presumably made Gil a Democrat … or an anarchist. None of this meant a thing to Mike, but Reagan seemed to get on awfully well with Margaret Thatcher over the Falklands War, which still raged in the South Atlantic, so they must see eye to eye over most things … and she was a bit of a rightie. He wondered how the war might affect Blackpool—people weren’t all that keen on fun at the moment, not like it had been in the Second World War, according to all the documentaries. Nathan had even sounded off about abandoning filming to go and entertain the troops down in the South Atlantic until someone pointed out that getting down there simply wasn’t possible. Perhaps he was as relieved at the news as Wolfgang Henze.
Mike and Bruce Dolland, the third assistant, were crossing the road from the coffee shop on their way back toward D-stage, when the distant chug-chug of heavy rotor blades caused them to look at two big helicopters thumping their way along the southern skyline. “Bet you that’s the Reagans on their way to stay with the Queen at Windsor Castle.” Bruce peered from under a shielding hand as the big aircraft disappeared behind the trees surrounding the Location Garden. “No doubt Liz will keep Nancy Reagan occupied while hubby runs off to continue the love affair with Maggie Thatcher.”
“No doubt,” Mike echoed faintly. His gaze was directed back down the Main Road at the block of small offices opposite the mass of the central office block, and a disturbingly familiar figure emerging from Gerald Mundy’s office. The hulking form of Nathan’s minder Greg paused, half turned, and stood aside as Lewis the Drive stepped out beside him.
Now what did they want with the Fixer? It went a long way to confirming that they had a connection to Mundy, even though both parties had denied it … well, not quite, just told him to mind his own business. The two men walked around the office block corner and Mike assumed they were heading for Nathan’s Green Room, which filled him with foreboding, although he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. After all, Nathan was forced into their dubious company before and after being on the set for the day.
