Stolen popcorn in hand, grinning, Lucy clomped, three steps at a time, down the empty civic cinema’s central aisle. Stopping at the bottom, she turned and called up to Destructor. ‘Come on. Des. All the way down to the front.’
He stood silhouetted in the doorway’s light. ‘Is that necessary for the evening’s enjoyment?’
‘You want to see it up close, don’t you? To see inside the actors’ mouths when they eat, the fear in their eyes whenever a mike boom swings too close.’
‘I do?’
‘Course you do. Now, come on.’
And, humming Wham songs to herself, she sidled along the front row, two feet from the screen, claiming a seat in the middle.
Destructor clomped down the steps then sidled along the row, with more difficulty than her, due to his greater size. Shown how to tip down a seat, he joined her. ‘Lucille, what is this “pictures” we are here to see?’
She nodded at the screen. ‘That is.’
‘This is?’ He studied its blankness, trying to perceive something not immediately apparent to him.
Her eyeballs grazed on every inch of its whiteness. ‘Pretty cool, huh?’
He looked harder, eyes narrowing to yellow slits, head tilting one way then the other. He looked with one eye covered, then the other, then both. He looked at her. He looked at the screen. He almost said something but didn’t.
Finally, he rose. ‘I have seen it now, Lucille. I shall depart.’
She hauled him back into his seat. ‘No. Hold on. It gets better.’
‘Better?’
‘I know it’s hard to believe but …’ Again she stared at the screen, in eager anticipation. He’d soon get the gist.
She explained, ‘It’s a blockbuster tribute to Miles Silkland; all his movies running back to back for a week. You could fall asleep then wake, days later, still in the same scene. Ever heard of him?’
He shook his head.
‘No one has,’ she said. ‘It’s the 21st Century’s greatest scandal; the man who tried to put Wheatley on the map, unrecognized in even his own home town.’ She studied the rows of vacant seats behind, then watched the projection booth. Within moved a shadowy figure.
‘Miles Silkland was this town’s celluloid savant,’ she said. ‘He produced, directed and starred in Trailer Park Ju-Ju; Pyjama Bikers on Mambo; Go-Go Gorilla, Gone Gone Gone; Kill Double-Top, Kill Triple-Top, One Hundred and Eighty, Bullseye Bullseye Bullseye; Sea Monkeys, Aargh; My Name is Spanner. – that’s my favourite.’
‘Which one?’
‘That one.’
‘Which one?’
‘The last one?’ he asked.
‘Last one? There was no last one. That was all one film; Trailer Park Ju-Ju; Pyjama Bikers on Mam –’ ‘Thank you, Lucille. I believe I understand.’
‘Miles Silkland was the worst ever film maker, even worse than Bergman. He had no budget, no talent, no clue.’
‘Then why are we here to see this “pictures” of his?’
‘Because he was brilliant.’
‘Brilliant?’
‘Funny,’ she said.
‘Funny?’
‘You know, funny. Or have you eaten that too?’
‘I do not believe I have eaten it. I shall make enquiries.’
‘Sometimes, Des, you worry me.’
‘Why, thank you, Lucille.’
‘Eat your popcorn.’
‘I have eaten it.’
‘Drink your orange juice.’
‘I have eaten it.’
‘Read your ticket.’
‘I have eaten it.’
Jerk.
The screen lit up. On it appeared a startled parakeet in a pink wetsuit.
Destructor gasped.
And the first feature rolled.