Beauties and the Beast (2 page)

‘Whoa there', he told himself. ‘You're on a stage. There are no windows on a stage'. He walked to the front of the stage. But he couldn't see past the lights. What time was it? Why was he here? More to the point, where was Genghis?

Chapter Two

Billy needed Genghis, badly. He was alone and didn't like it. He stood, teeth digging deep into his bottom lip and heart racing in panic as he stared unblinking into the lights.

He was oblivious to the man who stumbled, cursing noisily, through the doorway. The portly man, who wore a red and blue checked suit and carried an ancient ukulele, fell to his knees on the stage boards. He cursed again and stood, shading his eyes against the light. He looked at his hand then opened his fingers and sniffed at them.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust and then wiped them down the trousers of his suit.

Like an automaton he moved his hand to his head. Check: the battered straw hat was in place. Check: flies fastened. He relaxed but instantly tensed again.

His brow creased. He obviously had a problem concentrating.

“Why did I drink so much?” he muttered. “The blonde: did I?” He shook his head. He couldn't remember. He finally pulled his brain into focus. Then it was clear. Of course! The phone call: the call to audition for the greatest show ever - and his chance to go ligit. Was that last night? It must have been, because he was sober and he was here.

His eyes gradually accepted the light and the scene. Then his jaw dropped and his shoulders slumped. Somebody was playing foul. It was a joke. The greatest show ever - on this stage? Then he spotted Billy.

His mouth slammed shut, he lifted his shoulders and bounced across the stage until he was by the rocker's side.

“Hello, Hello, Hello,” he beamed. “What have we here then? Is this a theatre or a bomb shelter?”

Billy was shocked into reality at the sound of the strange voice. He jerked his head round and saw a silly looking little man standing by his side. He had a huge smile on his face and looked like a leprechaun from Hell.

“You what?” Billy managed to utter.

“A theatre, a theatre,” said Mickey. “You know - the smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd.”

Billy stared uncomprehending, face screwed up. Then it relaxed as he understood what the man was talking about.

“You're off your chump,” he said.

Mickey was a pro. No skinny little upstart was going to faze him. He kept the smile on his face and held out his hand. “Mickey Finnegan,” he said, “comedy king, a gag for all occasions.”

“Yeah, well why don't you wear it!” said Billy as he drew back. He stared at the comic, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Mickey stopped. “What?” Then he understood. “Oh yeah, I get it, very funny.” He frowned. This was a tough punter. He tried again. “Here, did you hear about the elephant who was taking a walk by the river?”

Billy's eyes glazed. “What?”

“The elephant walking by the river - he saw mouse taking a drink and he said ‘my, you're little fellow aren't you?' and the mouse said: ‘Well, I've been ill.' Boom, boom.”

Mickey looked expectantly at Billy, who was staring in disbelief.

Mickey let out a large sigh. “That's the trouble with the youth of today, no sense of humour.” He paused, thinking. Then he tipped his hat forward and smiled again. “Hey, what about the swaggie who turns up at a house and asks for some food. The lady of the house opened the door in her nightie...”

“Yeah, yeah I know - that's a funny place to keep a door. Ha bloody ha.” Billy shook his head sadly.

“No. no,” said Mickey. Agitation was tensing his gut. “She asked the swaggie see, she asked him if he wanted some cold rice pudding. The swaggie said ‘yes please'.” Mickey felt panic rising. No response. The timing had gone. He needed a drink. No he didn't. He took a big breath. “Then the woman said, ‘well come back tomorrow because it's hot now'. Get it?”

Billy groaned. Where was Genghis? “I get it, like I did when I was five.” He spat the words.

Mickey looked down at his ukulele. “Ah well, you can't win ‘em all.” He stared at the bank of computer terminals. “What's that?”

“They look like computers to me.” There was sarcasm in Billy's voice.

“I can see that,” snapped Mickey. “What're they for?”

“I'm fucked if I know.”

Mickey stared at Billy. There were angry, unsaid words behind his eyes. He walked to the back of the stage. He saw the guitar. He recognised the expensive brand. He laid his ukulele on the ground and picked up the other instrument. “A Fender eh; are you in show business as well?”

Billy watched in horror as Mickey strummed the guitar. “Put the bastard down.” The words came out as a scream of anguish.

Mickey was startled. There was violence in the voice. He rested the guitar carefully back.

“No need to get upset. I'm a muso too,” he said. He paused and studied the guitar and then Billy. “You must be here for the auditions.”

“Not if you're going to be in the show,” retorted Billy. He glared at Mickey aggressively, but then stepped back as he saw the little man coming closer. “What's wrong? What're you up to?”

Mickey shook his head and smiled again. “I know who you are. You're Billy Winter, the heavy metal bloke. Hey, hear about the Rock'n'roll singer who fell off the stage?” He stopped and laughed. It was a high-pitched titter that Billy felt scrape against his brain. It was like chalk on a blackboard. Mickey stopped the laughter and continued. “He looked up at his mates and said ‘hey you guys give me a hand will you' and they all went... ”

Mickey began to clap his hands, but Billy beat him to it. It was a slow handclap that indicated complete derision. Mickey felt what was left of the power draining away. It drained up into the lights. He stood, palms oozing droplets of sweat - or was it blood? He flinched at the weird thought and checked his hands again. It was just sweat.

That's what audiences wanted these days, he thought, blood. You couldn't call a stage a stage any more. It was a bloody amphitheatre, and everybody was ready with to turn the thumbs down. It was like being a Christian thrown to the lions. Christian? A smile twisted his lips, hardly. He sat down on the dusty seat.

Billy strode to the edge of the stage. His tension whistled through Mickey. It ripped the atmosphere.

“Why would bloody Genghis send me here,” he muttered savagely. “It's a piss hole. I'm a super star, man. A rock'n'roll legend.” His words were a wolf howl lost in the wind.

Mickey picked up on the strange word. “Genghis?”

Billy whirled round and fixed Mickey with a malevolent stare. “Don't you know anything? Genghis Khan, my manager.”

“Nice,” said Mickey. “Bit of a Tartar is he?”

The joke went winging over Billy's head. “It's his nickname” He swept to the wings and stared into the gloom but could see nothing. He sloped to the edge of the stage and glared into the lights. “Why would he send me here? It's nothing. You couldn't get my Jamaican fan club in this place.”

“They reckon it's going to be the greatest show ever produced,” ventured Mickey.

There was a noise. Shuffling and groaning sounds came from inside the passageway. They both gazed fearfully at the entrance to the passageway. Two mouths dropped as one as the black robed figure loomed into the light.

When he recovered his balance Thornton saw the two men. They looked to him like Laurel and Hardy or Abbott and Costello: the tall and the short; the thin and the fat. One gaunt and haunted, the other lined, and sagging. Both looked just this side of death.

He didn't like what he saw, so he ignored the scene. His manner, grand as he strode to the other side of the stage, stated that he hadn't seen anyone. He struck a pose, a grand Shakespearean pose, an unsure actor's pose.

Then the famous voice boomed. “My God, what is this place? What is this flea pit of a mausoleum?”

Mickey gaped in awe, Billy in bewilderment. But two sets of vocal chords were silenced by the phenomenon. Thornton swirled round; the coat became Batman's cape, the hat a covering of darkness.

“Well?”

He glared. The men stood mesmerised; the snake and the rabbits. “Answer me. What is this black Hell hole of mouldering timber and rotting mortar?”

Mickey Finnegan was the first to regain the use of his voice. “It's a theatre, mate.”

Thornton fixed him with a baleful, disbelieving stare. He took a deep breath. He stepped closer to the comic, towering over him. “A theatre, a theatre! La Scala Milan is a theatre, La Comedie Francais is a theatre, and even the London Palladium is a theatre but this...”

He cast a look of disgust around him. “Are you seriously trying to tell me I am now standing on the stage of a theatre?”

There was no answer to his rhetorical question from the dumb-struck duo.

Thornton timed his pause then continued. “This is not, never has been, and never could be a theatre. It's a turd palace that's not fit for even the lowest group of amateurs, let alone me.”

Mickey's eyes shone as he acknowledged the performance of a master. He wanted to applaud as Thornton swept magnificently to the rear of the stage.

Billy however was underwhelmed by the histrionics. “Who the fuck's he?” he asked in utter bewilderment.

Mickey closed in conspiratorially. “That, mate,” he said, “is Belvedere Thornton. He is to the live theatre and the wide screen movies what I am to TV and the clubs.”

Billy was uncomprehending. “He's what?”

“He is,” said Mickey, “One of the greatest actors of all time.”

“What was his name again?”

“Belvedere Thornton.”

Billy creased his brow into a frown, a facade of thinking. Then: “Never heard of him.”

“You don't know much for a superstar do you,” said Mickey. He turned his back on the singer and stared at Thornton who was facing the ancient Elsinore, head held high, hands clasped royally behind his back. Mickey moved resolutely then towards the great actor.

Thornton felt the approach, but stood still. Mickey halted behind him.

“G'day Mr Thornton,” he said with a voice close to reverence.

Thornton turned and looked down at the comic.

Mickey thrust out his hand. “Mickey Finnegan, the host with the most, the man who put fun into funny.”

Billy sniggered. “The man who put rot into rotten,” he said.

“Just watch it,” said Mickey. Billy caught a subtle undertone of violence. Mickey stood, hand held rigid. Thornton was motionless until his lips curled in a sneer. “Go away you grubby little man.” Mickey dropped his hand. He felt humiliation but subdued it. He took a mental note. There was one more name on his hit list. He forced a smile and managed to look like an ageing cherub.

“No need to get temperamental Mr Thornton.” He glanced to Billy for succour and got nothing. Billy was a spectre; a man made of smoke. Mickey smiled the false smile again. “We'll have to watch him when the show starts.”

The words animated the hovering mass that was Thornton. He strode forward, his rheumy eyes glittered. “Ah, the show; what immortal words must have been penned for my management to insist that I present myself to the producers.”

“Something special, I know that,” said Mickey simply.

“But why here?” The projection was lower, the tones normal, “why this Godforsaken place? It's a labyrinth of grime and rats. It doesn't even have a stage door. I doubt it's a theatre at all.” He paused and closed in on Mickey. “Did you see the front entrance?”

“Didn't look,” said Mickey.

“I did,” said Thornton. He glanced at his gold Rolex. It was an original, a self winder. No batteries needed. He shook it, peered at it, and then put it to his ear. But there was no heartbeat of ticking. A Rolex does not stop ticking! The thought worried him. “I couldn't find it. There was nothing. No stage door, no props door; just a seedy little entrance that could only have been meant for chorus boys.” Thornton felt anger rising. Mickey's placating smile didn't help.

“That
was
the stage door,” said the comic. “It was marked ‘auditions.'”

Thornton's voice took on a velvet edge. “I'm Belvedere Thornton,” he crooned. “I don't do auditions.”

“Oh pardon me,” said Mickey indignantly. “Aren't we grand? Maybe you don't do auditions, but that's why you're here. That's why we're all here. The show is a blockbuster.”

Thornton's voice slid into silk. “You've seen the script?”

“No,” Mickey admitted, feeling foolish.

“Then how do you know?” The thunder returned to the voice.

Mickey fought back. “It has to be,” he said emanating aggression. “Look at us. You're a star. I'm a star and him ...” He pointed a nail-bitten finger at Billy Winter, “... he's a rock'n'roll superstar.”

Thornton surveyed Billy. The look ran over the singer like a short circuit. Thornton spoke in measured tones.

“He looks like a pale turd to me.”

The words stung Billy from his languor. “Here, watch your mouth you gasbag. I make more in five minutes than you could in five years you silly old bugger.”

Thornton threw back his head and bellowed a laugh that rattled the rafters. Dust drifted from the roof and shone eerily in the down light. “My, my, an intellectual giant,” he taunted. The sarcasm had a knife edge. “Don't mix it with me boy. I'm an Oscar winner, a great of the screen.”

“Wow, I'm impressed.” Billy's sarcasm equalled Thornton's. “I'll keep an eye out on the late, late show.”

Thornton's anger was growing. “Listen sonny, just my name was enough to triple box office takings.”

“Yeah? Well it still don't make you as a big a draw as me,” countered Billy.

Thornton blew. “You tawdry little teenage warbler, don't you dare make comparisons. I am the superstar sonny, and I don't do auditions.” He paused dramatically. “And you can tell that to the management.”

Thornton gathered up his coat and strode to the exit. The other men watched in silence as he disappeared into the blackness of the passageway.