Night on Terror Island (2 page)

‘Doesn’t matter what’s fair, your mum’s got a meeting at the health centre tonight and she can’t leave Rose alone in the house.’ Mum was a district nurse and had to attend meetings at the most inconvenient times.

‘Perfect,’ muttered Kip. He upended the large bag of corn kernels into the mouth of the machine and hit the start button. There was a brief pause and then a series of popping sounds. Huge knobbles of popcorn began to spill from the dispenser, filling the booth with their delicious aroma.

The glass door of the cinema swung open and Norman plodded in. Despite the warm summer evening, he was wearing a heavy overcoat and had a woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. He trudged over to the counter and stood watching Kip for a moment. Then he spoke in his familiar mournful tones.

‘Making popcorn?’ he asked.

Kip looked at him. He felt like saying,
No, I’m juggling with porridge
, but he didn’t. Norman could be touchy at the best of times and, since he was only going to be around for a couple more days, it wouldn’t do to upset him. So he smiled and nodded.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d get it started. Crowd’ll be coming in soon.’

‘Think you’ll
get
a crowd for this?’ asked Norman gloomily.

‘Sure. It’s had great reviews.’

Norman leaned over the counter to speak in confidence. ‘Any luck with my replacement?’ he murmured. ‘I have to be gone by Sunday. Kitty’s driving over in the Punto to collect my bits and pieces.’

‘Er … Dad got a letter just now,’ said Kip, ‘from a guy who used to work at Il Fanto … Il Fant … this cinema in Venice.’

‘Venice?’ Norman raised his bushy grey eyebrows at this. ‘What kind of a cinema would that be? The city’s all underwater, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe they give you a snorkel and flippers at the door,’ suggested Kip and he started to laugh, but Norman just looked at him blankly.

‘How would you be able to hear anything?’ he asked.

Kip shook his head. Norman must have had his sense of humour surgically removed at a young age. ‘Shouldn’t you be er … getting things ready in the projection room?’ he asked hopefully.

‘All sorted,’ said Norman. ‘Spliced the reels together this afternoon. Adverts, trailers, feature, the lot. All set to go at the flick of a switch.’

‘Oh.’ Kip returned his attention to the popcorn machine, which had now filled the heated glass box to the halfway mark. ‘How er … how’s your lumbago?’ he asked, trying to make conversation.

‘Oh, dreadful, but I don’t like to grumble.’ This was a lie; Norman
loved
to grumble. ‘It’s what you get when you spend your life standing around in cold projection rooms.’ He leaned further over the counter, as if to confide a secret. ‘Now, about my leaving present,’ he said.

Kip stared at him. He hadn’t been aware that there was going to
be
one.

‘I don’t want your father spending too much on me. I know he’s got money troubles at the moment. So, just something modest. And perhaps a nicely worded card?’

‘Right,’ said Kip. ‘I’ll … mention it.’

‘Good lad.’

The entrance door swung open again and Kip glanced up, expecting to see the first of the night’s crowd arriving early, but the man who now stood in the foyer was not a regular and, frankly, Kip thought he was one of the oddest-looking people he had ever seen.

He was tall and whip-thin, dressed in a long, black leather coat that came almost to his ankles. He wore a black, wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow onto his face, and from out of that shadow, peered two fierce eyes that were the palest shade of grey. There was hardly any flesh on the face at all. The cheeks were sunken, the skin unnaturally pale. Kip had the impression that he was looking at somebody very old
and
yet the man’s tall figure seemed incredibly wiry and full of vitality. He lifted a hand and Kip saw that he was wearing tight, black leather gloves that seemed to cling to his long fingers like a second skin.

‘The Paramount!’ he said, in a strangely accented voice.
Italian?
‘Oh yes, there’s quite a history here, I can
smell
it.’ His gaze seemed to focus on Kip, and his mouth shaped itself into a grin, revealing two rows of perfectly-shaped tombstone-white teeth. ‘You, boy,’ he said. ‘Where is the owner of this fine establishment?’

‘He’s er … he’s in the office.’

‘Then would you be kind enough to tell him that Mr Lazarus is here to see him?’ The man turned to Norman. ‘And you, of course, are the projectionist. I smell celluloid on you.’

Norman looked slightly offended.

‘I had a bath this morning,’ he said.

‘It weaves itself into the pores,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘Don’t worry, it is a fine smell – the smell of adventure and drama and romance.’ He studied Norman for a moment. ‘So, you’re finally giving up on it, are you?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Norman.

‘Moving on. Deserting this fine theatre of dreams where you have worked for …’ He paused for a moment as though considering, ‘For fifty years,’ he said, with conviction.

‘Good Lord,’ said Norman. ‘That’s exactly right.
But
how did you—?’

‘It is my business to know,’ said Mr Lazarus, as if this explained everything. ‘And only a fool would come ill-prepared to an interview.’ He returned his attention to Kip. ‘Your father?’ he enquired.

‘Er … yeah, just a minute.’ Kip moved to the adjoining door, thinking as he did so that he hadn’t actually mentioned that the owner
was
his father. He pushed open the door and stuck his head through. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘there’s a Mr Lazarus here to see you.’ And he raised his eyebrows as if to say,
Wait till you meet this guy!

Dad got up from the desk and came through, looking a bit flustered.

‘Mr Lazarus,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d let me know you were calling tonight, I’d have—’

‘Put out the red carpet?’ said Mr Lazarus, with the ghost of a smile.

‘Er …’ Dad extended a hand across the counter to shake but Mr Lazarus didn’t oblige. Instead, he lifted a gloved hand. One moment the hand was empty, the next there was a small square of cardboard gripped between thumb and forefinger. ‘My card,’ he said and handed it to Dad with a melodramatic flourish. Dad examined it blankly for a moment and then passed it to Kip. Kip looked at it. It was just a square of white card with the word LAZARUS printed on it in black letters – but, as he stared at it, something amazing
happened
, something that almost made him drop the card.

For an instant, it seemed to become a small screen and, on the screen, Kip saw, in incredible detail, an ancient primeval forest and, moving through that forest, an olive-green Tyrannosaurus Rex charging after some unseen prey, smashing down the vegetation with its huge back legs, its mighty jaws open to crush and tear its prey. Then, just as suddenly, the image shimmered and vanished and it was simply a square of card again. Kip swallowed and put it down on the counter, stunned. Dad didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd. He looked perfectly calm.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you mentioned something in your letter about working in Venice. May I ask why you left your last position?’

Mr Lazarus’s eyes seemed to moisten for a moment.

‘Floods,’ he said. ‘The awful affliction that will one day overwhelm that entire city. Forgive me, but it makes me emotional to think of that wonderful old cinema, swamped by the rising waters and nothing we could do to save it. The owner, the incomparable Señor Ravelli, was obliged to walk away after so many years of hard work. Ah, how we cried when the news was given to us. How we wept! Do you know Il Fantoccini, Mr McCall?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Dad. ‘We usually holiday in
Morecambe
.’ He paused, as though expecting a laugh, but he didn’t get one. ‘Do you … perhaps have a reference from Señor Ravelli?’

Mr Lazarus smiled thinly as though he’d just been insulted.

‘Forgive me, Mr McCall, but a man such as myself needs no references. I have eaten, drunk and slept cinema, ever since I was the age of the boy who stands beside you. Your son, I have no doubt of that. I can see the resemblance.’

‘Er … yes, this is Kip.’ Then Dad indicated Norman. ‘And this—’

‘Is Norman Cresswell,’ finished Mr Lazarus. ‘A man famed throughout the world for his cinematic skills.’

‘Really?’ said Norman, looking doubtful. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘Mr Cresswell, you are a legend! Many people still speak of that night in nineteen seventy-nine, when the film snapped and you had it back up and running in less than two minutes, without missing a single frame.’

Norman looked bewildered. If such a thing had happened to him, it was clear that he didn’t remember it.

‘Well, I … pride myself on being a professional,’ he said.

‘Of course you do! Such a shame that poor health prevents you from continuing in this noble tradition.’

‘It’s my lumbago,’ said Norman, making it sound almost like an apology. ‘As the saying goes, Mr Lazarus, the spirit is willing …’

‘But the flesh is weak. I know, I know.’ He reached out a hand and patted Norman on the shoulder. ‘My heart goes out to you, sir.’ He paused, turned back to the counter. ‘So, let me see …’ He seemed to concentrate for a moment, as if marshalling his strength. ‘This fine cinema was opened in nineteen twenty-three with a showing of
The Warrior Queen
, a silent movie for which a live orchestra provided an accompaniment.’

Kip happened to be looking at the card lying in front of him, and for a fraction of a second it showed another image: the Paramount Picture Palace in grainy black and white. A press of eager people stood round the entrance, the men all wearing hats, the ladies bonnets and fur coats. Kip was about to say something but, once again, the image shimmered and returned to blank white card.

Mr Lazarus continued speaking. ‘The cinema has kept going ever since … your great-grandfather, your grandfather, your father and now you, Mr McCall, have worked tirelessly to achieve this … but, in nineteen ninety-six, a huge multiplex was opened only a short car journey from here, offering its customers the luxury of twelve screens and free parking. This had a huge impact on your fortunes.
Now
, you struggle on in the knowledge that the coming digital revolution will probably finish you off completely.’

There was a long silence after that.

Eventually, Dad managed to find a few words. ‘You’ve certainly done your homework,’ he said.

Mr Lazarus smiled.

‘Mr McCall, that’s not homework. That’s knowledge built up over a lifetime of devotion to the silver screen.’

‘And may I ask what brought you to this area?’ asked Dad.

‘Isn’t it obvious? There was a cinema that needed a projectionist. How could I stay away?’

‘But … I only put the ad in the
Manchester Evening News
five days ago,’ said Dad. ‘If you came all the way from Venice, then—’

‘I got here as quickly as I could,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘The show must go on, Mr McCall. That is my motto.’

‘Well, er … that’s marvellous. I’m sure Norman here will be happy to take you up to the projection room to er … show you how everything works.’

‘No need,’ Mr Lazarus assured him. He lifted his hands as if framing a scene. ‘The projection room is long and narrow. You have just the one projector, a nineteen fifties Westar system, a fine piece of machinery still running smoothly after all these years.’

‘That’s absolutely right,’ gasped Norman.

‘To the left there is a tower of spools where the spliced film runs to the projector. Because of the narrowness of the room, the film has to be twisted by forty-five degrees in order to run through the shutter. Unusual, but it works. You use an ordinary anamorphic lens to show the adverts and then switch to cinemascope for the trailers and main feature.’

Now Norman was staring at him, his mouth open. ‘How could you possibly know all that?’ he gasped.

‘Experience,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘So, Mr Cresswell, your last night here is …?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Norman. ‘You see, on Sunday—’

‘Kitty is driving over in the Punto,’ finished Mr Lazarus. ‘How is your sister, Mr Cresswell?’

‘You know Kitty?’

‘I know
of
her. And I’m sure she is going to make your retirement very comfortable.’ Mr Lazarus considered for a moment. ‘In that case, I shall be here tomorrow at seven-thirty prompt for the handover. If it is all right with you, I shall run the last show while you observe that everything is done to your satisfaction. I think after so long in this business, you deserve to take it easy on your final night.’

‘Well … that would be a novelty,’ admitted Norman.

‘Excellent.’ The entrance doors opened and the first of the evening’s audience started to wander into the foyer. Mr Lazarus made a formal bow. ‘Well, I see your audience is arriving, so I shall leave you to your work. Till tomorrow!’

And with that, he turned and strode towards the door. Dad, Kip and Norman watched him go. It seemed that the interview was over and the Paramount had a new projectionist – yet to Kip it felt rather like he and Dad had been the ones who’d just been interviewed. But customers were approaching the ticket office and there was no time to discuss the matter further. Dad scooted through to the ticket office while Norman made his way into the auditorium, looking slightly dazed.