Beauties and the Beast (13 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Billy Winter suddenly knew there was no choice. He had to find that band. He had to work with it, and if it meant putting up with the sad comic and the old queen, so be it. He looked to where he thought the camera was.

“Okay, look all you like. You won't catch me. I'm clean. I don't need dope. But man, I need that band. You get that band and you've got me.”

He then grinned and strode to the door, opened it and walked back into the Green Room, where Mickey was slumped in his chair, eyes glazed with glutinous satisfaction. The door slid silently to. The lock clicked unheard by either man.

Billy breathed deeply. He was exhilarated. The world was going to need him again. Already he felt a rush of success surging through his veins. It was going to be like the old days. He bounced across to Mickey and punched him on the arm.

“Hey man, this gig is going to be a sell-out. Did you hear the band?”

Mickey eyed the singer warily. “What band?”

Billy looked briefly at the door. “Never mind.” He was suddenly jealous of his knowledge. It was
his
band. It was
not
for sharing.

It was then an agitated Thornton pushed open the Green Room door.

“They give you a hard time?” asked Billy, remembering his own spell of interrogation.

“What?” Thornton tried to gather his wits, to control the tidal flow of memories the trip into virtual reality had unleashed.

“They give you a hard time?” Billy was insistent. “Drag up stuff you'd forgotten.”

Thornton took a deep breath. “They certainly did that,” he murmured, “memories that should be left in the cess pit.”

“Dirty deeds eh?” Billy said with a leer. “And I'll bet there were a few.”

“Oh shut up.” Thornton became impatient. Then his head turned slowly towards the door. He stared. A puzzled look crossed his face; then a frown and then a look of determination as he strode suddenly towards it.

Mickey and Billy stared with interest as the actor opened the door and strode inside.

“Well,” said Mickey. “We won't see him for a while.”

“No,” said Billy. Jealous thoughts of the band crossed his mind briefly.

“Interesting wasn't it?” Mickey was fishing.

“Yes.” Billy was not biting. “It was interesting.”

Mickey stared at the door. “Do you think he'll pass?”

“What?”

“Pass the test. I mean, it was a test wasn't it?”

“I suppose it was.”

“Did you pass you reckon?”

“With flying colours.”

“Me too; no way could they tempt me. I was too strong.” Mickey laughed. “Silly girls, there was no way they would put one over on Mickey Finnegan. I was onto ‘em from the start.”

“Yeah, and me,” said Billy. “No way were they going to get me. They had a hidden camera.”

“I know,” said Mickey.

“Did you see it?”

“No, but it was there. I could feel it.”

“That's right. I knew it was there. I had a look round, but it I couldn't find it.”

Mickey shuddered. “They're a weird mob. I mean spying on us just for a play.” He was still fishing. “You see anything about the play in there?”

“No.” Billy was not going to talk about the band. “Did you?”

“No.” Mickey was not going to mention the comedy.

They fell into silence as two pairs of eyes focused on the soft glow of the door.

The needling from Billy went unheeded when Thornton heard the siren song of the door. It was the murmur of muted voices, a faint splash of water, the deep-throated chuckle of amusement; an excited shriek from someone in delicious pain then an ecstatic moan.

The voices were vaguely familiar as was the created atmosphere. Familiar but from where? He tried to solve the conundrum, but realised there was only one way. Go through the door. Knowing became a need. He marched to the door and turned the handle. The wooden edifice swung smoothly open and Thornton stepped inside. It was dark, but the light from the Green Room filtered through. He saw vague figures, colours, shapes, a candle glow, but as the door slid silently to and the darkness intensified.

The hum of familiar noise was still there. Thornton closed his eyes to accustom them to the darkness and strained his ears to locate the source of the sound. When he opened his eyes the room was still dark, but flames from the candle, no, candles, added an eerie light to the gloom.

He peered into the dimness, trying to pin-point exactly where he was. The familiarity suddenly disappeared. The room began to grow lighter. Someone was using a dimmer switch.

Then he heard the noises again. They came from outside the room. They were louder and he recognised them. Someone, someone close by, was having a pool party. Then he remembered the outside the theatre, the red bricks and concrete. It was hardly the place for a swimming pool. The sounds were reminiscent of California, sun-warmed, the vague voices lubricated by alcohol - and the noises? From people who endured for pleasure. It was a scene he had played many, many times.

The room was now lit by cleverly and expensively concealed lighting. The figures he'd seen in the gloom took on substance. They were mannequins, mannequins from the darkest room of the Hellfire Club.

Thornton felt desire rise in him as he savoured the sight. The lifelike figures were dressed in leather, or rubber, or bound in stainless steel chains and leather thongs. The sightless, hairless heads were silent, androgynous indicators of pleasure and pain.

Thornton moved forward and he saw more. He saw display cases, doors open, filled with erotic underwear, huge phalluses carved from ivory and jade, carvings so old they could have dropped to earth with the fallen angel and figures of equal antiquity, locked into positions of passion for eternity.

To a collector of eroticism like Thornton, they appeared exquisite, so too the paintings and drawings. Some in photographic detail, other in impressionistic style, but all glorifying acts of lust in all its styles and perversions.

Thornton moved through, eyes devouring the sights, feeling a stronger and stronger arousal. He paused in front of the tableau of the woman, tall, Amazonian, with leather-thonged whip held high over the naked man on the ground. These were no mannequins. These were life-like sculptures in mortician's wax, as real as a wax museum. The triumph in the woman's showed her power and the glistening eyes of the naked man bore testament to his anticipation of the pain that brought his sexual satisfaction.

His heart-beat increased as he moved through this museum of perversion. Then he saw something else. It was more mundane, but also one that had the allure of promised pleasure - the simple plasterboard wall. The foam protected holes that were the anonymous sex-holes from the days of repression.

Those days were long gone, but Thornton remembered stories of the men who lurked furtively in the toilet blocks where such holes were created. It was the meeting place of the persecuted who stood with the knowledge that on the other side of the wall was an unknown someone seeking the same pleasure. Mostly... sometimes there was pain without pleasure. To experience the hole in the wall was something he had often yearned for in his jaded fantasies. Now that final fantasy could be realised.

The talk was always of the excitement and the thrust through the hole. The wondering of what was next. Hand, mouth, anus, a sadistic hetero bent on inflicting pain. Mostly it was pleasure, but always there was the excitement of not knowing.

Thornton licked his lips. This was something new, a living fantasy. Murmuring came from the other side of the wall. He felt an urge to find out more and he moved closer. He bent down to look through the hole. He could smell the remnants of sex, but saw nothing.

He straightened, felt the throb in his trousers and a craving for sex. It was stronger than it had been for a long time. He stroked himself through his trousers and stared again at the hole in the wall. The thought was irresistible. Hands shaking he began to unzip his trousers. To find a new experience was beyond belief; what would he find on the other side, ecstasy, or agony?

There was no answer, until he found out by experience.

But then he saw a flash of reflected light. He pulled back into a shadow. The light, he would swear was reflected from a lens - a camera lens.

His heart pounded and his erection slid to nothing. Cameras! He was being watched. Monitored. The women were watching him. The temptations around were a trap. Only they and their damn computer could know of his unlived fantasy.

He straightened up and stared into the darkness above him, the concealed lights grew dimmer, and above them the darkness grew thicker. “I know you are watching,” he said. “You can try all you like. You will not trick Belvedere Thornton into adding footage to your tedious file of pornographic images. I know you are there.” He felt the presence of the camera, but he could not see it.

Convinced then that he had their measure he strolled leisurely around the display, stopping to examine some exhibits more closely, riffling through an occasional volume, and caressing some of the more sensual looking items.

It was while browsing through a shelf of leather bound, ancient volumes of witchcraft and spells, he found the sketches. They were pushed ungraciously in between the Malleus Maleficarum, the handbook of the Inquisition, and the memoirs of Alistair Crowley, the greatest warlock who ever lived.

The texture intrigued Thornton immediately. Where the books were mouldering and ancient and spotted with insect droppings, the sketches were of today. They were drawn in black ink on bleached white paper. He studied them and the hand-written notes that accompanied them. Finally his lower lips dropped as his jaw sagged. He jerked his head upwards and stared at the exhibition. This was no museum of erotica. This was the theatre wardrobe and props room. He was looking at the costumes for the play.

“My God,” he murmured. He took the sketches with him and inspected the display again. With a professional analysis he linked the costumes to the character names on the sketches. And he knew. He would be Brunio, the all-powerful Roman emperor, a new Caligula, and, he glanced around, he would have a cast of thousands. He heard the murmuring again from behind the wall. Had rehearsals already begun for the minor characters?

He felt his heart beating strongly. He could feel the power of Brunio. A newly discovered play by Shakespeare, oh my God, he prayed, let it be so. He suddenly became aware of the threat of the surveillance camera. He hugged the sketches to his chest and hurried back to the bookcase, where he pushed them back into their hole.

Then he marched across the room in ever increasing darkness until he arrived at the door. Briskly he opened it and crossed into the Green Room, where the brightness of the fluorescent lights dazzled him momentarily.

Chapter Seventeen

In his stygian blackness of his room, the amorphous mass that was Joshua Lucy rippled with laughter. How juicy. How nice. They had all passed the test.

He leaned towards a video camera at the rear of his desk and a wisp of a finger turned it on. The red light blinked. At the same time a monitor flickered into life revealing Angela and Diana. He watched in satisfaction as they recoiled from the sight of his face, but lived with enough fear to keep looking.

He turned a dial and altered the pixel structure to project a more pleasing portrait.

“Well?” The voice came through, modulated, cultured.

“Promising,” said Diana, eager to please.

“I particularly like Winter,” purred Angela, her fear mingled with excitement.

“Is that emotion or honest judgement?” There was nothing to be read in the voice. It simply screamed quietly for an honest answer.

Angela smiled her most winning smile, but her heart felt cold. “It isn't pure professional interest,” she said

Lucy snorted with amusement. “When was anything about you ever pure?”

“I'm sure we could go a long way together,” said Angela.

“I'm sure you could.” Diana's voice was schoolmarm prim; reprimanding.

Angela heard the tone and gave her a sweet smile. “It would only be temporary of course - for the run of the play.” She arched her eyebrows and showed her teeth in a cheeky smile.

Lucy's image laughed loudly. He enjoyed the games that Angela played.

Diana bridled. “He's not through the audition yet,” she snapped.

Lucy's lips pursed in gentle admonition; “Temper, temper,” he said, mocking.

“I just feel there is a slackening of professional attitude,” she said, sullenly. She was not secure in the presence of Lucy, even when he was only an image.

Angela's face took on a more earnest expression. “I feel that he has already showed tremendous potential. He has achieved so much in such a short time. He has the right - qualities.”

Lucy concurred. “He does project brutality we search for. His amorality is superb, although he did waver.”

His image disappeared to be replaced by a fast forward shot of Billy Winter, face haggard, lips tight. The speed slowed to normal. “For fuck's sake, wouldn't you?” The voice was husky in replay. The eyes haunted by memory. “For fuck's sake wouldn't you?” The voice echoed and echoed. Then the image faded to be replaced by Lucy's stern looking visage.

Angela shrugged her shoulders. “It was only a momentary lapse I'm sure. I can feel his rightness.”

“I'm not as positive as Angela,” said Diana. “It might be a small fault that could be corrected, but on the other hand, it could be the tiny flaw that can ruin the finished product.”

“You always err on the side of caution, which is why you are where you are,” said Lucy. “What about our Mr Finnegan?”

Diana smiled. Her red lips parted and showed shark teeth. “For all his jolly exterior, he has a depth to him - and a ruthless drive.”

“Which are sterling qualities,” admitted Lucy. A small frown clouded Angela's perfect face. Lucy's eyes focuses on her. “Is there something wrong?”

Angela shrugged. “I'm not sure yet. There's something that doesn't gel. I'm not sure what it is. I'll need to review the tape.”

The picture flicked on the screen. Mickey, tortured by the visions he had seen. “I hated it,” he said. “I hated it.”

“Yes,” she said. “That's it, the hint of remorse.”

Lucy's head appeared again. Angela lowered her eyes and Diana turned away. “Sorry,” came as a soft murmur from the monitor. There was a shift in pattern. “It's all right now.”

The women looked at the screen. The image was respectable again.

“The fault was no more than Winter's,” said Diana.

“Then the same applies,” said Lucy.

“I still feel he is the better prospect. He has lived so much longer. He has experience on his side.”

“Billy could mature quickly.” Angela's interjection was too quick.

“With your help of course:” Diana's words carried frost.

“Thornton?” Lucy brought the discussion to a close.

Diana's eyes glowed. “He is marvellous,” she said.

“I look forward to his reading,” said Angela. “He is almost too good to be true.”

Lucy's image roared with laughter. “I like your turn of phrase,” he gurgled. “But he could be the find of a lifetime, destined to be the eternal star.”

“He still has to read,” demurred Angela.

“Yes,” said Lucy. “They all have to read. Oh, they passed the Green Room test, all of them. They have no idea why they are here or where they are. Each has created his own fantasy. They can smell their roles now. They want the roles. They need the roles.”

“Hopefully,” added Diana, “they will win the roles.”

“After all,” said Angela, “the play really is thing.”

“You know your Shakespeare,” said Lucy.

“So I should. “Angela pouted “I... “

“That's fine Angela,” cut in Lucy. “Give our auditionees a ten minute call. Make them feel at home. And then come into my room.” With a smile that began as gentle mock and ended as a diabolical leer, Lucy's image morphed into horrific reality and faded.

The women stared for a second at the screen and then at each other. Fear, excitement, and lust mingled in their collective emotions. Diana gave a huge, heartfelt sigh, and Angela nodded. They did not need words to express their feeling for Joshua Lucy.

Diana leaned forward and spoke into a microphone. “If you gentlemen could return to the stage in ten minutes, the auditions will continue. Thank you.”

The voice of Diana boomed into the Green Room out of nowhere and it frightened the life out of the three men.

“Jesus,” shouted Mickey, leaping to his feet.

Billy glared round. “No need to bloody shout,” he muttered, heart beating at speed.

Thornton controlled his body, but his heart was racing. The sudden noise in the silence of the room, where all three were lost in their own reveries, was a heart stopper.

Billy paced round the room. “Nothing,” he said, “bloody nothing. No speakers anywhere. Unless they're hidden, like the camera. What is this place?”

“Whatever else it might be,” said Thornton quietly. “It is certainly a high tech wonderland.”

“It's also bloody spooky,” said Mickey.

Billy remembered the band, softly out of reach. “Yeah, that's right. It's spooky.”

Thornton opened his mouth to speak, but a gasp fell from it. “My God where did that come from?” He was looking at the clock that sat, white faced, with black hands on the white wall.

The two other men stared. The face of the clock stared silently down. The little hand was close to 12, midday or midnight? The large hand was on 10 and the second hand clicked remorselessly on.

“Must have been there all the time,” said Mickey.

“I never saw it,” said Billy.

“Well, one thing's for sure,” said Mickey. “They don't want us to be late.”

Billy gazed at the clock and then walked to the door. “What's next? I couldn't take any more of those video clips. Fuck!!!,” he thumped the door. “Why did bloody Genghis send me here? I want to go home.” Then he heard the band, the riff, floating in his head. “No, he's smarter than I thought. I need this show.”

Mickey stared at the singer. “I know,” he said. “It's going to take you back to the top, right?”

Billy stared back. “What do you know?”

“The same as you; I saw something in that room.” He sighed. “I have a feeling everything's going to be fine now. The hard work's over. We just have to read.”

“I agree.” Thornton's sallow face broke into a smile. “The hard work is over. Now we consolidate. We shall all be reborn ...” He looked at the clock, “in just about five minutes time.”

All three felt his euphoria and they stood mesmerised, and watched the second hand sweep round the face of the clock.

They were so intent on watching the passing of time; they didn't see the small, worry-faced man in the white suit watching them from behind the hot food bar.

When both hands of the clock hit 12 the three auditionees scurried for the door. Thornton reached it first and jerked it open. He stepped into the darkness. Swirls of colour fled past his eyes. He blinked as Billy, guitar in hand, and Mickey, clutching the battered ukulele, joined him.

The door slammed shut and the light from beneath disappeared. The wings were as black as the entrance passageways had been. The three men stood still. The euphoria had dissipated into fear.

They were back into the unknown.

The blackness dissolved slowly and gently into twilight as the glow from the stage crept towards them. Slowly and carefully, the trio of hopefuls moved on. As the light grew stronger, their pace increased until they reached the forbidden door of Joshua Lucy's den.

Mickey wrinkled his nose in disgust as they passed by.

“I'm sure something died in there,” he muttered. “What a stink.”

The men strode onto the stage. The hot glare had been replaced by the cooler dimness of working lights. There was a subtle change in atmosphere. Oddly, there was no feeling of the presence of Diana and Angela. Not a whiff of perfume, no waves of heat, nothing. It was as if they had never existed which was odd for two such powerful personalities. There was nothing tangible in the atmosphere at all. No feeling of reality, no feeling of theatre. It was an image of limbo.

The computer monitors glowed with highly coloured screen-savers. Mickey glanced at them, did a classic double take, and moved in closer. He saw animated figures of himself as a character he had never even imagined, let alone seen.

“Hey, come and look at this,” he called.

The two other men came quickly. Nothing was going to surprise them anymore, but they still wanted to stay informed.

“What about that then,” said Mickey.

They stared, both seeing different forms.

“Yeah,” said Billy. “It's cute.”

“Mmm,” pondered Thornton, as he admired the images, “fascinating, but hardly cute.”

Billy stared at the actor, began to speak, but thought better of it. He moved away and stared into the auditorium. The stage lighting had been dimmed, but he still could not penetrate into the blackness. He shrugged and turned away.

Mickey strode up and down the stage, peering into the darkness of the wings, trying to pin down the smell that came from Lucy's room. But it was elusive. Dead, rotting rats or wet carpet in a locked room... last night's dried vomit ...

Thornton sat in a chair. His mind swirled with the memory of the scenes that were created behind the polished door in the Green Room. He noticed no smell and Billy said nothing.

Ten minutes passed before anyone spoke. And then it was Mickey. He looked at his watch. The hands were motionless still and he was becoming increasingly nervous. Thornton was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, and Billy sat motionless on the edge of the stage.

“They said ten minutes,” said Mickey. “It must be 20 minutes at least by now.”

There was no response from anyone.

He strummed the ukulele. “Grilling us like pork chops and then doing the disappearing act.” He paused. Then, in higher pitch, continued. “Here, you don't think they've gone do you? Left us here?”

Billy turned and faced Mickey. “Why would they do that?” He strode back to the computer bank. “They wouldn't leave all this gear behind would they?”

“So why aren't they here then?” asked Mickey, with an edge of aggression in his voice.

“How the fuck do I know?” snapped Billy. “Maybe they're having lunch, or something.”

“No,” Mickey was positive. “They're
not
here for a reason. There's something fishy going on. I can smell it.”

Billy burst out laughing. “That's the best joke you've made since you got here. Fishy ...” He laughed again. The line hit the unsophisticated schoolboy in him.

“It wasn't a joke,” growled Mickey.

“How do you know?” scowled Billy. “How can you tell?”

Mickey pointed a threatening finger. “I'm getting sick of your snide remarks,” he said.

“So sue me,” said Billy. He thrust a sneering face forward, but then judiciously turned his back, away from the inherent violence that flowed from Mickey's rotund body.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” shouted the exasperated Mickey rhetorically. “You're just a worn-out, dope-riddled old rocker. You've got no right to keep riding me.”

Billy, put up a restraining hand. “All right, all right, I'm sorry. Okay?”

“Yeah, well ...” grumbled Mickey, slightly mollified by the change of tack. “No point in squabbling all the time is there? I mean, we've got to work together in the show haven't we?”

He sniffed and wrinkled up his nose. “That stink is getting worse. Can't you smell it?”

“I can smell the rotten old building,” said Billy. He breathed deeply through his nose. “It smells worse than rotten.”

“Yes,” agreed Mickey. “Like something upped and died, long ago.” He suddenly had visions of the nightmare, the dead men, the tattooed arms, and... the worms. He shuddered involuntarily. He felt fear, but of what he couldn't say His eyes roamed the dimly lit stage. “Where are they?”

Billy sniffed again. The malodorous atmosphere had not yet crept back into his soul. “Beats me,” he said. “All this squalor, dirt, grime, and stink; it's like no-one been inside for a hundred years and yet that Green Room,” he paused, “it was space-age. It wasn't something you could just knock up in half an hour, not unless you had your own personal genie or something.”

“Genie?” Mickey's voice lifted an octave. “That's stupid.”