But Tommy didn’t speak to Mark again for quite some time. Two days after the audition he received an email that stated simply: Sinema Extreme Productions would like to thank you for attending the audition on May 3rd. Unfortunately you have not been selected on this occasion but we would like to wish you luck on future projects.
Although he tried to pretend to himself that he wasn’t bothered, Tommy was, in all honesty, more than a little pissed off. Not just because he was missing out on a feature film, no matter how dubious it sounded, but also because if Jasmine had succeeded in her own audition, he would be missing out on her company as well. But what else had he expected with his arch rival—and the supporting artist he disliked most of all—in charge of auditions? And what idiot would give him that responsibility? Not the sort of idiot that could be relied on to make a good film, he told himself, in an attempt to lift his spirits.
As it turned out he didn’t need to look for ways to make his life more worthwhile: a few days later on a sunny morning in May, his agency stepped up and did a pretty good job of that for once. They had generously booked him on a popular British Sci Fi TV show as one of the main monsters. And what made it even better: there was no Mark Hamm dogging his steps, chasing all the Walk Ons and lines, and trying to edge into camera every chance he got.
Tommy arrived at the Cardiff studio in a fine mood. The walk up from the residential road where he’d parked had refreshed his mind and heightened his expectations. Cardiff Bay twinkled cheerily in the sun, and gulls perched on the maritime sculptures along the sea wall of the Barrage greeted him with cheeky cries. He was going to enjoy today despite everything.
He checked in at reception and waited in the refectory to be collected by the Third AD. He looked around at the smattering of minor celebs munching on their subsidised breakfasts. Most of them were part of the weekly A&E drama that shared studio space with Professor What (the Sci Fi show Tommy was working on today), and though he vaguely recognised some of them, he wasn’t overly keen on Hospital so couldn’t have identified any of them for sure. He spotted the main star of Professor What collecting a full English breakfast from the serving counter, and Tommy’s curiosity was aroused. He had just taken over the role—the part had been interpreted by several actors over the years since the show had begun in the 60’s—and was clearly still enthusiastic about it. He joked cheerily with the kitchen staff and then took his tray to a table not far from Tommy, smiling warmly at him as he passed.
Well, that was a good start. A lot of these A-listers didn’t bother giving you the time of day. He considered getting some breakfast for himself, but decided to pass. He’d managed to grab a bowl of cereal before dashing out of the (empty) house… He pushed thoughts of Trish out of his mind. He had created this scenario, this was the bed he wanted to lie in, so if the house was empty that was his choice, and the brief stab of regret he felt was a natural and understandable reaction to separating from someone he’d been married to for five years. On impulse he pulled out his Smartphone and thumbed the Facebook icon on the menu screen.
Jasmine Paal. He found her straight away, and wondered why he hadn’t thought of searching earlier. She was wearing leopard print in her profile pic too and her slightly sharp teeth were bared in a cup-your-balls-gently smile. He checked out all the details that were revealed to a non-friend, and that wasn’t much. She lived in Bath, was single, born in 1986 and that was it. Her friends list was hidden. There were a couple of inspirational posts from her that had been liked by a couple of (male) unknowns. Several posts from another male acquaintance dating from November that had been ignored. He pressed the Request Friend button and put the phone away. The Third AD was approaching him, a chubby blonde with a wide smile. Too early in the day for the stress to show, he thought and stood up to greet her.
“Are you Tommy?” She was clutching a call sheet and trying to listen to a voice in her earpiece at the same time as waiting for Tommy’s response. He gave it and she grabbed his wrist. “I’m Charlie. Let’s go. You’re the first to arrive, but we can get you settled in right away.”
He followed her across the refectory and through a door which she activated with her pass key. Then along a metal corridor and through another pass-operated door and into the studio block which was Professor What’s home.
Framed photographs of scenes and monsters from previous episodes in the long running series decorated the corridor that led to the sets. Tommy glanced at them as he passed, but Charlie’s grip on his wrist was pretty relentless. She took him through a final door and into a large set dominated by towering alien pillars and hunks of machinery which looked a little fake in their coats of new paint and without the lighting that would bring them to life, but were nevertheless impressive enough.
There was a cluster of prop guys and monster wranglers around the three Kaleks (the main adversaries of Professor What in the show), and Tommy approached them curiously. Charlie released him, told him to wait here for a few minutes while they waited for the other two supporting artists to arrive. He watched her trot off towards the monitor in one corner of the room where the director sat, huddled in conversation with the sound guy and cameraman. They looked vaguely familiar. Tommy worked on so many different shows that it was inevitable he would come across the same faces, and the directors, cameramen, grips, make-up and wardrobe crew were all chasing the same opportunities for work on as many varied productions as Tommy, just for different pay scales.
He approached the large pepper pot-like shell of the metallic monster he would be operating. It was a TV icon, and Tommy had grown up hiding behind the sofa watching these alien meanies along with so many others of his generation. It was therefore thrilling to see one in the flesh so to speak, and to know he would be inside it. The Kalek was painted bronze and moved on small castors. A gun stick emerged from the centre of the fibreglass body, next to a long rod ending in a pincer. As the top section had been removed for the operator to climb inside, Tommy could lean over and peer in. There was a simple wooden bench for the operator to sit on, the gun stick handle jutted a few inches inwards and that was it. No pedals, certainly no steering wheel. This baby would be propelled by foot power and brute strength. He wondered how easy it would be.
One of the monster wranglers saw him and came towards him, scooping up the domed top section as he came. There was an eyepiece near the apex of the dome, but Tommy guessed this was for effect only. He would be required to see through the mesh girding the top of the base section which was head height—or would be once he was sitting down inside.
“You ever been in one of these before?” the man asked. He looked tired and harassed, in his late fifties with grey whiskey hair and fluffy sideboards.
“Er…no,” Tommy confided.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” the wrangler turned to his mate. “Another fucking virgin,” he moaned.
“The agency didn’t tell me I needed experience,” Tommy explained.
“Fucking desperate were they?” He sighed. “And where are the other two?”
Tommy shrugged. “Charlie said they were coming.”
“Did she now.” He consulted a folded sheet of paper he tugged from his back pocket then grunted. “Matt and Claudio. Thank fuck for that. At least they know how to operate these bastards.”
As if on cue a runner pushed through the door from the corridor with two other supporting artists in tow. They shook hands with the wrangler and nodded to Tommy. He nodded right back. One was a real Alpha Male, six foot three at least, with a big quiff of hair and bullishly handsome face. His friend was podgier, though still tall, and sported a scruffy wisp of beard and a ponytail. This one introduced himself to Tommy as Claudio in a decidedly Italian accent that was rendered a little surreal by the tinge of Welsh mixed in with it.
They chatted with the wrangler for a while and ignored Tommy until Charlie joined them, all breathless, flushed and smiling. She ran through the shooting plan for the day with them. It all sounded simple enough. They were to operate the alien Kaleks around the studio floor, pretending to board an enemy spaceship and simulate attack, engaging in combat with some soldiers who would be arriving later.
“You’d better get in and try it out,” the wrangler—whose name it transpired was Graham—said to Tommy grudgingly. Despite the latent hostility directed at him, Tommy was determined to enjoy himself. He climbed up the little stepladder that was positioned beside the machine he was to inhabit with no little excitement. He lowered himself down into the cockpit and settled on the bench. The collar was above his head, but he had partial vision through the mesh in front of him.
“Head coming on,” the wrangler informed him and Tommy’s world darkened as the dome was slid into place on top of the casing and clicked shut with a slight twist. “Switch the light on,” the man barked. Tommy fumbled for the switch at his side, grafted next to a bulky battery strapped to the inside of the casing. He flicked it and the eye piece glowed above his head. “Okay, try moving forward.”
That was easier said than done. The casing was heavy and the three castors were far from fluidly mobile. The one at the front kept swivelling, basically locking Tommy to a standstill, but with practice and determination he managed to grunt it forward a few feet.
“Keep it straight for fuck’s sake,” he heard the old man grumbling. “And hold the gun stick up, don’t let the fucker droop. The front wheel needs to be straight at all times.”
Tommy did as he was told, and pushed his shoulders against the inside trim of the casing. This time the machine rolled forward a bit more easily.
“Spin it around,” the wrangler instructed him. “The movement needs to be smooth.”
Tommy tried revolving in a circle on the spot, but could manage no more than a sequence of jerky movements.
“Try it again,” the man sighed.
Tommy lifted his feet up this time and pushed against the right side of the casing with his shoulder with as much force as he could manage. The machine spun.
“Better. Try it again. And again. Needs to be smooth.”
This went on for another ten minutes or so. Tommy could see the other two machines occupied by Matt and Claudio going through their paces very efficiently. A man who looked vaguely familiar to Tommy announced loudly that they would be shooting in ten, and Tommy guessed he was the First AD. He heard a babble of voices from behind him and spun the machine to investigate. Through the meshed grill he could see a stream of men and women dressed as futuristic soldiers entering the room. They were bubbling with excitement and cradling their impressive hi tech-looking but inevitably fiberglass weaponry with obvious pride. Charlie huddled them into a group and relayed their instructions. A few of them crouched and pretended to fire at Tommy, Matt and Claudio with their blasters until the short-tempered First barked at them to stop fucking around and listen.
Tommy sat in his casing and waited. Finally the soldiers were arrayed behind crates and huge plastic breezeblocks in defence positions, and Tommy and his two monster comrades were ordered to reverse against the opposite wall while the cameras were set up.
“For rehearsal,” barked the First. “Turning…” Then the familiar cry: “Action!”
Tommy pushed off with his feet, leaning against the bulkhead to give him more impetus. The machine rolled forward obediently, and the wheel remained blessedly unlocked. Matt and Claudio were accompanying him to either side.
The soldiers were pretending to fire. Tommy waggled his gun stick at them. A couple of soldiers collapsed backwards, flinging their arms out in extravagant death throes.
“Cut!”
“For a take this time,” the First barked, striding around in his big boots with dramatic élan. “But curb the death cheese please…”
Tommy reversed with his two companions and prepared for action.
Curb the death cheese.
For take after take, Tommy grunted and shoved the dustbin monster up and down the set until finally the sadistic First was satisfied and called Lunch.
A couple of the soldiers decided to shed their uniforms, steaming with sweat. Tommy breathed in the relatively fresh studio air gratefully when Graham hoisted the lid off and set him free. He climbed down and followed the troop of supporting artists and crew as they made for the refectory.
Graham stayed behind alone, fussing with the battery connections in his monsters, some of which had stubbornly refused to work.
It was quiet in the studio now and Graham relaxed for the first time that day. He hated the chirpy recklessness of the extras, who didn’t really give a fuck if the props worked properly or whether they happened to drop an expensive gun Graham had spent hours creating. He examined the base of the Kalek Tommy had occupied and tutted when he spotted a fresh paint chip on its front bumper.
“Clumsy fuck,” he hissed to himself. He fetched a pot of paint and a brush from the props cupboard and knelt down to touch up the damage, completely unaware of the door to the corridor opening behind him. He didn’t notice the figure shrugging into a discarded soldier uniform either, donning a futuristic helmet complete with visor. Instead of a rifle, the new arrival carried a small camcorder in one hand. The other held a drill.
It was a fairly bulky drill with a power pack attached for cordless use—although the manufacturers had certainly never envisaged the purpose it was going to be put to today. The intruder stepped slowly towards Graham. If the wrangler had turned he would have seen the red light on the Sanyo glowing constantly and would have smiled for the camera. Or more likely scowled in irritation, suspecting another supporting artist prank.
When the figure was halfway towards him across the large studio space, Graham finally turned. He peered at the intruder, at the camera, at the drill. As if on cue, the “soldier” pressed the starter and the drill twirled into buzzing life.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” Graham took a step to meet the intruder but then something made him hesitate. It wasn’t just because the figure—and Graham couldn’t recognize the features through the tinted visor—was holding a drill (and holding it like a fucking gun) or even the camera in the other gloved hand filming his confusion that caused Graham to stop. It was more down to the decidedly menacing bearing of the intruder, the unhurried gait.
“Did you hear me?” Graham’s voice cracked slightly, and that was embarrassing because he wasn’t scared (not yet) and now this bastard had his display of weakness on video. “Yeah, very funny. Put that fucking drill down and fuck off to lunch right now before I call your agency.” He straightened to his full five-ten. He might be nearly sixty but he was a solid 250 pounds of no-nonsense brummie. If this tit wanted a scrap he would give him one. The figure continued its implacable approach, the drill whining, the camera recording…five steps away now, Graham squinting to peer through the visor…
The driller watched Graham frowning uneasily through the tinted Plexiglas and revved the drill with a flick of a black-gloved thumb. The bit whirled faster. The Sanyo camcorder clutched in the driller’s left hand was steady, the view screen framing Graham perfectly in black and white.
The stocky man would put up a fight. That was obvious from the aggressive expression and bunched fists. But the intruder was ready for that. The drill could easily compensate for those dry knuckles. The driller closed the gap quickly in one sudden jab of motion and the drill lunged for Graham’s paunch. The wrangler moved at the last minute and the bit missed its intended target and ground into the fleshy bags under his left bicep. The victim screamed horribly, and behind the mask, the killer’s face formed a rictus grin of mixed frustration and pleasure deferred…
When the drill sank into his arm, Graham realized in a tear of agony that this was no SA or crew member pulling a stunt. This was only too deadly real. He gaped at the gushing wound as the twirling drill bit withdrew from its bloody socket and let out a howl of primitive, raw pain.
He fell back against the Kalek he had just been painting, clutching at the wound uselessly. Blood foamed through his fingers. The masked intruder lifted the drill for another assault. Weeping in agony, Graham darted to his left, around the large pepper pot-shaped prop, putting its bulk between himself and the madman.
The intruder hesitated for a moment. Graham’s assailant appeared lither and fitter than the middle-aged wrangler, and it wouldn’t take long for Graham to be chased down if they continued this deadly game of tag. Graham threw back his head and shouted as loud as he could. “HELP! HELP MEEE!” There had to be someone still hanging around, surely to God. Please let there be somebody as diligent as himself, some crew member or runner who just had to finish one little job in the studio before following the rest of the herd to lunch. He shouted again, his voice cracking like a youth hitting puberty, and as he strained to hear any hint of a reply or sound of a door opening over the fizz of the drill, the assailant seized the moment and came round the side of the machine with frightening speed.
The wrangler realized his mistake, and tried to push himself away from the Kalek and make a dash for the door. The intruder slammed him back against the machine with one shoulder and steadied the camera, red recording light unblinking, the counter now reaching five minutes ten seconds, then lunged again with the drill.
The bit dug deep into Graham’s belly and he squealed, writhing like a fly on a pin against the empty machine, the machine he had so lovingly restored for the latest series. One pudgy hand gripped the protruding gun stick as he jerked against the fibreglass surface, as if the wrangler were willing the gun to exterminate his opponent. But the gun was a prop, and there was no FX guy in the world that could help him make it real right now. The drill chugged as it bored into solid fat, gristle and finally intestine, but before the attack could prove fatal, the intruder dragged the drill out of its bore hole and stood back as if to survey a spot of handiwork. Then the drill leaped forward again, and this time the bit went for the money shot while the camera filmed it all in close up and Gore-vision. The intruder leaned into the job, exerting full strength and pushing the drill bit into the centre of Graham’s wrinkled forehead.
Et voila! The drill had found oil! Blood welled and bubbled around the twisting bit, masking Graham’s agonised features behind a mini waterfall of red stuff. Chards of bone were dug out from Graham’s forehead, pattering against the intruder’s visor. The killer ignored the drizzle of brain fragments that obscured the Plexiglas and forced the drill bit deeper until it clogged and the power stalled. Graham had ceased to move now, flopped back against the hollow Kalek, one out-flung arm draped over the gun stick. Blood had given him a dark red apron, tinged his jeans, dyed his hair and splattered the machine behind him.
The driller, finding the bit was imbedded too deeply in Graham’s skull to withdraw, patiently switched off the camcorder, placed it momentarily on the floor and then detached the bit from the drill handle. The intruder then placed the drill on the floor beside the camcorder, bent to seize the corpse around its blood-soaked knees and gasping with exertion, heaved the body up the flank of the prop and let it fall inside. One foot remained stubbornly hanging over the open top. The killer ignored it, carrying both drill and camcorder to a nondescript rucksack discarded by the door earlier and placed them carefully inside. Then the driller shrugged out of the bloody uniform and left it draped over a plastic chair. One last thing needed to be done. From a separate pocket on the outside of the rucksack, the driller removed a VHS box with a particularly gruesome cover and carried it back to the bloody Kalek Tommy had such trouble manoeuvring. The killer dropped the box inside. It slid down Graham’s ruptured stomach and came to a rest against his chin.
The driller killer turned again and strode casually towards the door. There was no need to hurry; there was still a good half hour of lunch time and there was no chance of anybody disturbing the fun. Charlie’s pass key opened the door at the end of the corridor and the killer walked towards the refectory. There might be time for a quick sandwich before the Third even noticed her key was gone. It would be found soon enough discarded in a waste bin, a bit like Graham stuffed upside down in his own receptacle.
Tommy had enjoyed his Chicken Masala and chips, although his pleasure had been spoiled somewhat upon spotting Mark Hamm entering the refectory when he went to collect his chocolate dessert. The smug extra saluted him ironically from across the room. He was dressed in a blue male nurse’s uniform, and the familiar smirk was plastered on his face, as if to say, hey, you just know I’m gonna get a Walk On and a line today.
Tommy ignored the salute, paid for his dessert and left the serving counter. Hamm blocked his way.
“Hello Tommy! How’s things?” He stuck out a hand which Tommy promptly ignored.
“I thought just once I might get to do a job without you turning up,” Tommy said.
Mark pretended to be taken aback. “Harsh! But I’m not on the same job. I assume you’re doing Professor What? I’m down the corridor playing a nurse in Hospital.” He smiled amiably. “But I hope you’re not still upset over that audition business? We could tell from your reactions that you were perhaps a little too sensitive for the part. It was nothing personal.”
Tommy nodded. “Whatever, Mark.” He made to step past, but Hamm grabbed his arm.
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll keep you up to date on the film’s progress. And you can always ask your new friend Jasmine…”
Tommy looked at him sharply.
“Oh, she told me you both hit it off wonderfully before the audition. Lovely girl. She’ll fit in perfectly…”
One last smirk and he minced off, leaving Tommy with a turmoil of emotions to digest along with his dessert.
All too soon Charlie was ushering them back to the set. Tommy watched her pause before the electronic refectory door, rummaging through her pockets. The First appeared next to her. “What’s up? Lost your key?”
Charlie nodded miserably. The First held out his own and slid it down the key groove. “You really should keep it around your neck, Charlie. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve been told.” He walked ahead of them through the open doorway, and Charlie, even more red-faced than normal, gestured to the assembled extras to precede her.
The First was waiting for them at the studio door and the group sauntered along the corridor, some of the soldiers joshing Matt and Claudio about how they were gonna blast their fibreglass asses. Claudio responded by describing the soldiers as Kalek Road Kill. Tommy stayed out of the banter. His encounter with Mark had dampened his enthusiasm. Just as it always did.
It was one of the soldiers who noticed there was a problem. He was one of the first into the room, a shy and rather earnest twenty-two year old called Ben. He had shed his uniform before leaving the set, and upon going to retrieve it now, found that although it was still draped over the chair where he had left it, it had magically accrued a coating of sticky crimson. By the time he had realized it was blood, not to mention brain matter, Tommy had advanced far enough into the room to see that his Kalek was similarly covered in grue. He stopped abruptly. Charlie came up behind him, irritable due to her public dressing down from the First. “Hurry up. Straight back inside. Lots to shoot this afternoo—” She froze, having realized exactly why Tommy had stopped, staring at his machine.
They had both seen the foot poking up from the open collar. The slip-on shoe was patented with blood, as was the sock emerging from it. Neither Tommy nor Charlie made any effort to step closer and peer inside. They waited for the First to do that. Curb the death cheese.
Charlie was starting to sob. The First swaggered up like a Staff Sergeant, ready to bark at her again. Then he spotted the foot too.
“What’s this? Someone pranking me?” He peered over the collar of the machine, stiffened, and then slowly withdrew. His fulsome expression had drained, like someone had pulled out the plug on his face.
He turned towards Charlie, as if to admonish her for this latest delay, and then vomited his Chicken Masala all over her spotlessly white tee.