Beauties and the Beast (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Billy reached the door and stared at it. The only sound in the Green Room was his breathing. Then! He cocked his head on one side. He put his ear closer to the door. There was sound. A guitar riff like nothing he'd heard before. It was muted, but magical. The riff stopped. There was a muffled bass, the toc toc of a bongo and then the riff again.

Billy marvelled at the sound. It soared and created notes that were unimaginable. Billy wondered where the player found the amps to distort the notes so wonderfully. Billy had never heard music like this. It was full of rhythms straight from rock'n'roll Heaven. Jimmi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Richie Blackmore.

The door handle glowed in time to the beat: hot, cold; hot, cold.

It was too much. He had to find that band. He grasped the handle and turned it. The door slid open smoothly and he stepped inside. He looked around expectantly. But there was no band. The music was still there, still muffled. It came from beyond the wall opposite.

A puzzled frown passed over his face. Then he noticed the velvet covered easy chairs, finely made wooden tables sitting on the black and white marble-tiled floor. There were photographs on the wall and cupboards lined the white-painted walls. Bottles and boxes filled them, and small plastic bags overflowed onto the shelves. He recognised them instantly - two-gram sachets. He hurried over. The glass doors slid easily open, not like the chemist shops he'd had to rob.

He felt his hands tremble as he picked up a small packet. There were even perforations along the top. He pulled it open and dipped his finger in. Slowly the white covered fingertip moved to his lips. He licked it and as he'd guessed it was pure white heroin.

A quick glance told him there were millions of dollars in street value, in just one box. He put the pack down and investigated the rest of the shelves. Amphetamines, Angel Dust, LSD, Ice, straight morphine, sophisticated tailor-made joints.

In another cupboard, this time locked and barred were rows of hypodermic syringes, sealed in sterile packages.

He looked guiltily around him and then spotted silver trays gleaming in subdued lighting and spread about the room on coffee tables. It was Hollywood elegant, and he knew what was on them. He moved over for a closer inspection. Silver straws were arranged neatly by small piles of powder. Cocaine trails. Pills of all colours made abstract patterns in silver salvers. Bottles of Perrier stood unopened in ice buckets, with crystal glasses by their sides. This, thought Billy, was one hell of a party room. But where were the guests?

He sauntered thoughtfully across to the wall to study the photographs. They were large, like movie posters, and were glossily laminated to boards. At first the subjects puzzled him. Black and white images of smiling people full of life and well-being. They were all entertainers like him, Errol Flynn, Charlie Parker, Elvis Presley, Janis Joplin, Billie Holiday, John Belushi, Keano Reeves, Bela Lugosi. Then his mouth suddenly went dry as realisation hit. They had all died from drug abuse. He moved along the line to the end, studying each one. The last one was a rocker in full flight. It was the only photograph in living colour. It was Billy Winter.

Billy felt his legs go weak and he slumped into a green velvet chair, mouth like a desert dust storm, perspiration on his brow and hands trembling. What was this place?

He rubbed his arm and licked his lips. Maybe he needed a shot. Could he be having withdrawal hallucinations? His heart began to thump less rapidly. That had to be the answer. He gave a brittle laugh that echoed round the room. It was either that or someone was playing a ghastly joke.

He got to his feet again and found he was still clutching a sachet of dope. He hurried to the cupboard that housed the syringes and tried to open it, but it was firmly secure. He wandered round the room, looking for open cupboards. There were none, none of any use to him anyway.

Then he saw a syringe sitting alone on a shelf, leaning against the wall between two more photographs. He smiled triumphantly and picked it up. He noticed the small clot of bright red blood at the needle point. He hesitated. Then he saw the photographs. Rock Hudson and Liberace: AIDS. He dropped the needle on the floor, heart beating, fingers trembling. What were they trying to do to him?

He stared up at the ceiling and thought he saw a camera lens. Then he smiled. The women - Angela and Diana - it was them; it was just another piece of their trickery. He suddenly felt he was back in control. They were trying to break him, push him into shooting up.

No way. He took stock again. He didn't need a fix. He felt clear headed and fit. There were no stomach cramps, no cold sweats. It was almost as though he were clean. He put the sachet back into the cupboard, then ran round the room whooping as he tipped over the silver trays, creating a fog of cocaine. Then he threw the salvers on the floor to create rainbow rivers of pills. He burst out laughing. If they could play games so could he.

He heard the strains of the magical riff again. The sound drew him to the wall. He pressed his ear to it, but the music was still far away. His heart lifted at the sound and it brought his mind back to his predicament. If that band was going to back him, then he had to be in the show whether Thornton and Finnegan were in it or not.

No question. That sound behind his voice would create a new phenomenon. The thought washed over him like summer rain. He straightened his shoulders and felt ten years younger.

Feeling wonderfully refreshed and confident, he began to walk back to the door, but before he reached it, the short man in the white coat appeared from behind the hot food stand.

Billy stopped. “You with the band, man?” he asked. The man shook his head. “Can you help me find the band?”

The man came cautiously forward. “You must not be tempted by the band. You must not do this show.” He gripped Billy's arm so tightly that it hurt. The singer jerked his arm away.

“Hey man,” he grumbled.

The little man bowed his head. “So sorry,” he murmured and backed away.

Billy looked quizzically at the figure. “That's twice you've told me not to do the show? What's the buzz?' The man was silent, but Billy persisted. “Yeah, okay, the chicks are over the top, but hey man, that band - that guitar, man.”

It was the sound he had searched for himself. When? A thousand years ago? A thousand hits ago? It was when the music counted for something more than money, when music was life. He almost had it. That was just before he met his idol, the Yank, the greatest guitarist in the world. What a support gig that was; travelling all round Britain, girls in every town followed by the big party with the smell of marijuana everywhere. Then there was the magic of the master and his guitar. Even when he was exhausted and took a hit his guitar played sounds Billy couldn't even have imagined.

The bass man saw the idolising look. He smiled and Billy took his first hit of heroin. He soared but his fingers couldn't even pluck the strings of his own guitar. He felt his first rush of exhilaration and his first downward rush of failure.

He was Billy Winter. Not the master. In his haze his anger swelled. He smashed his guitar against the wall and howled. The party people thought he was having a bad trip, but his band knew better. They heard the cry of the vanquished.

But Billy never lost the echo of the sound and the search became part of his life, and so did the insidious white powder.

Billy rubbed his arm in memory of his life and stared at the man in white, who was watching him carefully.

“Man, if I can find that band, I'll work with it, even if the drummer's Old Nick himself.”

The man shook his head slowly and walked towards the hot food stand. “You will not be wise,” he muttered and disappeared into the corridor.

Billy's face wore a puzzled look. The little man bugged him. He looked slowly round the room. Nothing had changed. The smorgasbord of drugs was still there, tantalisingly available. And so was the blood tipped syringe. Memories stirred.

The drugs, the frantic never-ending craving for a feeling that would bring him close to the sound and the never-ending failure of the search.

He had never been able to work out whether the drugs helped or hindered. There were times, with the right quantity in his veins when the sound was so close he could hear it. But he never could create it on his own guitar.

But now, now he felt no need for heroin and he felt strength and faith he thought was long gone. The sound was here and he could create it himself. If only he could find the band.

Chapter Fifteen

Thornton felt naked as his wide eyes watched the scene unfold, naked down to his soul. This was a memory he had buried deep in his subconscious: the woman and the boy; the wide-mouthed, eager woman, sweating, and the beautiful, beautiful boy. Close to puberty. Dressed in designer shirt and shorts, with blonde hair, cavernous blue eyes, and cherub lips, his movements were almost feminine.

The bedroom was black as Thornton's soul, but silky with luxury. The erotic pictures, priceless antique originals. The four-poster bed, a relic from the castle of a bankrupt British earl, dominated the room. The drapes looked heavy, hiding the silken sheets, but a bed light inside could shine, and turn the drapes in a diaphanous shroud. It worked like a see-through mirror.

“So,” the woman was nervous, the little boy not so. His wide eyes took in the scene. He was eleven, and old for his years. He had been a child actor for six of them. He had plenty of work, but no stardom. His mother wanted stardom for her child. Thornton said he could give it to the boy. She believed him. He knew it was possible.

“So, this is the famous black boudoir.” The woman giggled and licked her lips nervously.

“Infamous I'd say.” Thornton licked his lips for a different reason, eyes first on the woman, then on the boy, who looked at him and smiled. He had old eyes, but still innocent. Who first? He sat on the bed and patted it. “Sit,” he commanded in his best patriarchal tones.

The woman moved, hesitating, to the bed. The boy bounced onto it and then lay back, legs crossed, arms behind head, staring at the obscene mural on the top of the canopy.

“It's huge,” he said.

“It is indeed,” said Thornton. He stroked the boy's leg gently, watching for reaction from the mother. No nervousness or fear. Good. “So you want a star role?”

The boy nodded. Thornton's hand rode further towards the thigh and the boy uncrossed his legs. His body tensed and he kept staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. Thornton could see the heartbeat through the T-shirt. “How badly?”

“Badly,” cut in the mother. She was sitting rigid, upright.

Thornton let his hand wander under the edge of the shorts. The boy didn't move. Thornton felt the small, bony erection and he smiled. The boy was a natural.

“My, what on earth is this?” He moved his hand over the immature hardness and stroked it. He felt the boy quiver. Thornton looked then at the mother. “Look what we have here,” he commanded. She looked and gave an imitation of a smile.

“Why don't you undress the boy?” Thornton said to the mother.

The boy moved. “I'm big enough to undress myself,” he said. He was excited, and thrust against Thornton's grip. Thornton let go. “Good boy,” he said. He moved away.

The boy sat up. “Not in front of mother though,” he said.

Thornton smiled. “My dear boy, you mustn't be so coy. You'll do worse when you are a star.”

“He will become a star won't he?” There was pleading in her voice. Thornton enjoyed the thrill of power. “In my next film there is a juvenile lead, the best for many years. There will be competition, but take my word, your son has the talent. He will win the role.”

“He does have the talent.” The mother's voice was soft. “He's just never had the right break.”

“And now you are ensuring he does get that break.” Thornton smiled, looking lasciviously down the cleft of the mother's dress. Then he decided; first the mother, then the boy. “Why don't you get undressed?” he said gently. “Why don't we all get undressed?”

He slid off his jeans and jockey shorts in one go and his blue silk shirt slid to one side to reveal his erection. The boy's eyes widened. The mother looked away, but she slowly unzipped the front of her Rodeo Drive denim mini-dress. She wore just panties underneath. Her body was trim and in fine condition, her tan, perfect. Thornton stared insolently until she stepped out her underwear. The red bush proved her auburn hair was real. She stood, uncertain.

“Your mother has a beautiful body don't you think?” he asked the boy, who nodded his head. Thornton leaned over and undid the boy's belt and tickled him. The boy giggled and his undressing became a game. When he was naked, Thornton leaned over him and stroked his penis again. “Not as big as mine is it?” He rolled over to reveal himself. Then he took the boy's hand and pulled it gently to him. The boy instinctively knew what to do. His eyes were glued to the member.

Thornton looked to the mother. “Come here,” he said. She obeyed and sat on the bed. “Kiss me,” demanded Thornton. She did so, and Thornton felt the reluctance. He sat up and took the boy's hand away. Without a word he sat the boy at the top of the bed on the huge, down-filled pillows. He looked l like an angel on a cloud. “Look and learn boy,” he murmured and then pulled the mother down into his groin.

She went through the motions, but it was not enough for Thornton. He wanted passion from. He moved away and lay her down and the, with his hands and his lips and his tongue, he brought the reluctant woman to gasping arousal.

Then as she groaned and begged for orgasm he pulled away. Pulsating, heart racing, he grasped the boy. “Now you can earn your stardom.”

With the mother kissing and licking his body, Thornton, opened the boy's legs and fell on him. He felt the hardness of the boy's quivering erection in his stomach, and then he slipped underneath. He felt resistance. He thrust and forced himself inside the boy. The boy struggled and screamed in agony, but Thornton had him in a grip of steel. The tightness was exquisite. He thrust. And thrust savagely. He felt the boy go limp with sobs. Euphoric, he withdrew and threw himself onto the woman. His desire was sadistic, his need, to hurt. He turned her silky-smooth body over. Eagerly he lifted her rear and entered her as he had the boy. He roared, the boy sobbed and the mother shook in passion when she rose to meet Thornton's massive thrusts.

He felt his orgasm rise. He thrust harder. The woman moaned. He saw the weeping boy in his peripheral vision. He pulled free from the woman and, gasping stared at the boy, a sliver of a smile on his face. The boy shrank back. “No,” he screamed.

“Do it,” said the mother, her voice as dead as her heart.

Thornton grabbed the screaming, struggling boy an entered him. A few agonising thrusts later he climaxed.

The vivid picture faded. Thornton was grey-faced and nauseous. His whole body trembled. “I did not do that.” His voice was a choking whisper.

“Records say you did,” snapped Diana.

“I... I.” Thornton's brain came to a dead stop. The memory hit him like electric shock treatment.

“But it was fun, wasn't it?” Angela's voice purred. “Sheer, on the edge, exhilarating power-based excitement.” She sighed. “That's always the best.”

Thornton felt hope rise in him. They did not condemn. He felt colour surge back into his cheeks. His breathing became less shallow. Life came back.

“I merely made a request of the woman, a treat in exchange for a favour. She was happy to comply.” He stared directly into Angela's glowing blue eyes. “She said she'd do anything to get her boy into a starring role. I merely put her to the test.”

“A somewhat harrowing test,” Diana's voice had an edge to it.

Thornton went on the defensive. “No matter, thanks to my influence the boy got his starring role. I kept my word and now he is one of the biggest adult box office stars of today.”

“Actually,” Diana's voice was fragile and gentle. “He's in a mental home at the present.”

Thornton brushed the veiled criticism away. “He was always unstable.”

“But don't you think that the experience in your bed might have scarred him?” said Angela reproachfully. “He was so very young.”

“Such things have happened to many others. They survived.”

“But he didn't.”

“Blame his mother. She was the one who was obsessive.

Angela came closer to him, smiling. “Did you enjoy it?” Thornton raised a theatrical eyebrow. “The hurting of the boy,” she said, “in front of his - obsessive - mother?”

Thornton paused. He had the sensation of being reeled in like a hooked fish. “He was a beautiful boy. We had an agreement.”

Diana shuddered. “Don't you think it was rather disgusting to use your power like that?”

Thornton glared at her in disbelief. “That's the way power games are played, as I learned in my younger days.”

Diana's eyes widened in mock surprise: “You're not saying things like that happened to you!”

“On the way to the top, you have to bypass the people in power. I did what I had to do, as he did.” He looked towards the blinking curser on the blank screen.

Diana clicked on her keyboard and stared into another monitor. Then she straightened up and stretched. A tiger, tawny and powerful, ready to pounce. “You always maintained that your sexual leanings were natural, inbuilt from birth.”

Thornton's memory flashed. He was tall for his age and so handsome he was almost beautiful. Many thought he was. He remembered the friends of his father, the covert touching, the feelings, thrills, and fear. His mother's friends; cocktails, giggles, the eyes, vivid with musky yearning; more touching and stroking, and more feelings of thrills and fear.

He closed his eyes as the memory of his first orgasm surfaced: the whisky-breath of the woman as she kissed and stroked him and then sat him in the chair and showed him how to pleasure her. Then the moans as she engulfed him in the warmest place he had ever known. The feeling of that ejaculation remained with him forever. It was the highest peak he'd ever reached. But then the deflation was just as powerful; the smell of the wetness of the woman, the stickiness, and the flab around her thighs was obvious. He decided he didn't like what had happened to him. But he never forgot the power sex gave him. He apparently was good at it.

More women came and brought him presents, they encouraged his precocious talent. They helped him on his way. He looked closely at the women. Breasts soft, flesh softer, skin gently wrinkled. Not, to his mind, attractive at all.

His first experience with a male was different. The body was strong, muscles taut and developed. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. The skin was smooth and gently oiled with sweat. The sex too, was cleaner. The organ was smooth, hard, and dry. There was initial pain, but this was soon outweighed by the passion. And then he found he could manipulate them, all, male and female, with his body.

Were his feelings inbuilt? Or created by the people he knew and the lifestyle he lived all his life? He enjoyed the strong young men, but later... there were others. He shuddered involuntarily.

“Well?” Diana's voice snapped him back to reality.

“My sexual proclivity is natural to me,” he said pompously, “but, some of those disgusting old men... I didn't go willingly, but it was a price I was prepared to pay for my fame.”

“You were a determined young man,” purred Angela.

Diana turned back to her monitor. “Ah yes,” she said at last. “That deals with that little question, but now, what about your current problem.”

Thornton looked towards the blackness of the ceiling. “The only problem I have at the moment is you people.”

“What about your heart condition?”

The question surprised Thornton. “I, I, I have no heart condition,” he finally blustered.

Diana smiled efficiently. “The computer says you have.”

“Then the computer is wrong,” he snapped. “I have occasional spells of tiredness, but who doesn't at... 50.”

The two women avoided each other's eyes, but could not contain stifled giggles. Diana straightened her face. “But, if it were true, you might collapse before the end of your contract, and wouldn't that be just the slightest bit unfair to management?”

Thornton drew himself up to his tallest. “Madam,” he thundered. One Belvedere Thornton performance is worth a thousand others. As for Othello... if I had died after the first week, it would not have been unfair, but as it happens, I did not die after the first week, nor even the third week and judging by the way I feel now, any medical reports that says I am in any way unfit is close to libel.”

Angela pouted. “They're strong words Mr Thornton.”

“They are the truth,” he countered.

Diana switched off her terminal with a click. “Thank you Mr Thornton,” she said, “that's all for now. If you'd like to return to the Green Room... ”

“When will I see the script?” he cut in.

Angela smiled. “Soon.” she said in a voice as soothing as whale song.” She indicated the wings with her tapered finger.

Thornton hesitated, but thought better of exchanging argument with the two peculiar women and made a grand exit.