It was the eyes that decided it. Blue and scared, and hauntingly familiar. The eyes and the fact that now Arthur was on hold Tommy had no work. So when the email came through, he had already made up his mind he would go to the audition.
The message was very bare and basic: thank you for your enquiry. We are pleased to invite you to a casting call at Sinema Extreme Productions on 3rd May at Factory Studios, 11:00 a.m.
That was it. No names, no other directions, no clue at all as to what part he would be auditioning for. He contemplated contacting Mark, but didn’t want to get into a conversation with him. He didn’t want his rival to think his taunts and condescension had worked and Tommy was actually going to apply.
The tweets didn’t help. This is proving to be a remarkable shoot. So realistic, so powerful, #Serioushamm. Mark was all over Facebook, too, or at least the group belonging to the casting agency they were both affiliated to: If ever there were a horror film that deserved the tag, then this is it. Will put the likes of The Exorcist and Texas Chainsaw Massacre to shame.
Now all this of course had elicited quite a few responses from curious tweeters and members of the Facebook group alike. The interesting thing was that despite his bold statements and apparent efforts to incite envy and resentment by implying he was the only supporting artist working on anything remotely good, his answers to those aroused enough to discover more from him were decidedly noncommittal. But then again, that was Mark Hamm’s style. He boasted, he strutted. Sharing had never been a game he liked to play.
Tommy had almost weakened and posted his own message, but then he could have run the risk of sounding as if he too was influenced by Mark’s bragging, and he didn’t want that. Oh no. #Notfuckingbothered. But of course he was auditioning anyway—he just didn’t want Mark to know about it yet. And there was always the horrible thought of the added pleasure it would give Hamm if Tommy failed the audition. Better just to keep quiet.
On the morning of the audition, Trish caught him looking at Morefishinthesea.com. He didn’t hear her come in. She stood for a while looking at the page full of female profiles over his shoulder, and then she said quietly, almost to herself, “I’m leaving you, Tommy.”
Tommy’s head whipped round, his face slack with shock. Automatically, he went to close the laptop but she prevented him, her hand firm on his. “No, you can carry on. You might find someone. Let’s be honest with each other for the first time in years. We’ve both known this marriage is dead in the water for a long time.”
He lowered his head for a second, saying nothing. Then he looked up, expression sad and lost.
“I’m sorry,” he said. It was all he could think of. But it wasn’t enough. He’d been saying sorry for the six years of their marriage, and while she could accept it for the first year when she had loved him, now it no longer washed.
“Me too,” she said finally. “I’m going to move in with Laura for a while.” She paused on her way out. “Be happy, Tommy.”
He watched her leave from the upstairs window. She wasn’t taking much. Laura got out of her Mini Cooper and looked up at him. Trish did not. The Cooper took the turn and was gone. Tommy was a hollow oak of a man, empty and cold. He walked from room to room of the mid-terraced house, as if confirming his new freedom, as barren as it felt. On the coffee table next to the TV, the garish Don’t Go in the Woods box stood up to attention, the video still in the machine waiting to be finished. He’d only been able to endure half the film before the relentless droning and high pitched shrieking of the cheap synth score had driven him up to bed. But that hadn’t been the only reason. Remorse had pricked him: it was almost as if he had been ghoulishly savouring the connection between the Arthur crime scene and the video nasty. He thought of Andy, remembered finding the dead Geordie… He reached out to pick up the video box, then stopped himself. He had half an hour before he needed to leave for his audition. His stomach started to churn, although he wasn’t sure whether that was caused by Trish walking out, or the forthcoming casting call.
He changed into a plain black, long-sleeved shirt and some black jeans, then looked at himself in the mirror. Untidy dark brown hair, a rather pinched face, a thoughtful (lost?) look in his eyes and a serious slant to his mouth. He needed to laugh more. He needed to love more.
He shrugged into a tight fitting All Saints leather jacket and left the house. The Factory Studio—an old concrete ex tobacco warehouse used by bands for rehearsal and recording which resembled an Eastern European pre-war abomination—was in an industrial estate only a twenty minute drive away on the outskirts of Bristol, and he made it with fifteen minutes to spare. He parked his VW Polo next to the Studio and headed for the shadowy entrance, hunched against a late April shower. A row of bells, two of them marked Studios One and Two respectively, the bottom affixed with a temporary sticky label that read simply SINEMA EXTREME PRODUCTIONS in biro. Not an auspicious start. He thumbed the bell and waited. And waited.
He couldn’t see anything through the single dark glass door apart from his own reflection, and when another image suddenly appeared behind his, he stiffened with a jolt and an involuntary grunt. The reflection bared white teeth, and Tommy spun to face the girl standing behind him, her smile scorching right through him.
“I made you jump,” she said in an accent Tommy couldn’t place, but was certainly not Bristolian. He gaped at her like a fish, completely clueless as to what to say. She waited for him to think of something, that smile burning him up, her teeth gleaming behind the ultra-shiny pink gloss of her lips. Her hair was long and a dirty tawny blond, tangled around her dark brown eyes. She couldn’t have been much more than five foot one or two, and she had boosted her height with some wicked high heels as pink as her lips. Her hands were in the pockets of her leopard print jacket, which looked more like a coat on her small figure.
Tommy finally thought of something. “Er, yeah.” Brilliant. Top marks. “Yes, you did, I mean, just a little.” He smiled back, careful not to reveal his silver crowned tooth which he had only recently had done and was still a little conscious of.
“I’m Jasmine,” she said and held out a dainty little pink-nailed hand. He took it and stammered his own name.
“You here for the audition?” she said, and now he could detect what was possibly a slight Trans-Atlantic twang.
He nodded and gestured at the door. “Yeah, but there’s no answer.”
She leaned past him and pressed the bell again and he was caught up in the intoxicating smell of her. The fake fur of her coat was warm and cuddly as she brushed past him. His body was electric for the brief second she was close. Then she stood back and smiled again. “It’s because we’re a bit early. I dare say they’ll answer soon.” As if her honeyed voice was the cue, a grating set beside the door emitted a harsh rattle and the door clicked. Tommy tested it and it swung inward into a dark hallway, lit only by a dim bulb.
It was a short hall, ending in a concrete stairwell. They hesitated for a moment, then Jasmine reached for his hand and led him forward. As surprised at her familiarity as he was, Tommy certainly wasn’t going to reject it. He let himself be gently pulled up the first flight to an equally gloomy landing. A door on the right proclaimed it to be STUDIO ONE, but it was closed and dark. The second floor yielded similar results and Jasmine led him up the final flight to an even gloomier landing. The notice above the door on the third floor was a makeshift banner with SINEMA EXTREME AUDITIONS in bold black font against a red background.
They could see through the glass into a small empty space beyond. The door swung inward as Jasmine pushed and they entered the waiting area. Six or seven folding chairs were lined up against the near wall, while opposite them another door, this one of dark wood, remained closed. There was no other furniture. Tommy moved to open the far door, but Jasmine, still holding his hand, pulled him to one of the chairs instead.
“They know we’re here,” she purred. “They’ll come get us when they need to.”
Tommy sat next to her, basking in her warm honey presence. Jasmine more than compensated for the bleakness of the surroundings. He didn’t care about the fly-specked dim bulb above their heads, or the breeze block interior design, or the patch of mould to the right of the peeling door. Sitting with Jasmine was like being next to an effervescent Roman candle fizzing with pink sparks.
She linked her arm in his and leaned close, so that his senses reeled with her scent and her physical proximity. She had a little mole nestled in the hollow of her neck just above her breastbone, and a beauty spot darker than the faint honey freckles on her cheeks. He wanted to know all about her, but she seemed keener to find out about him. Her eyes held his, warm and brown and twinkly. He had forgotten all about the audition until the door to the landing opened behind him and a young couple entered—he assumed they were here for the casting call from their general bewildered air. Tommy resented them irrationally for interrupting his private Jasmine moment, but apart from smiling at them briefly she didn’t seem bothered about speaking to them. They ignored Tommy completely and sat together a few chairs down.
“So why do you want to audition for a horror film?” Tommy finally managed to get a question in.
“It doesn’t matter that it’s a horror film,” she trilled. “It’s an opportunity. One that hopefully will give us a chance to shine. I’ve acted in several short films and one feature, but this is offering a real chance of proper exposure.”
“But how did you hear about it? I haven’t seen it advertised on any of the industry websites?”
“Well that’s part of its charm. It seems to be very much word of mouth. They’re being extremely selective, so if you’ve been invited to audition that’s a fantastic complement.” He was rapidly becoming acclimatised to Jasmine’s seemingly inexhaustible enthusiasm for everything. It was quite infectious, and while her endless positivity could have been potentially cloying, Tommy found it endearing in a naïve way. He lapped it up. Lapped her up.
The door opened.
A man stood in the doorway. A huge man, like a bouncer on steroids. His tight dark suit—two sizes too small, but Tommy wondered if he could even buy in his correct size—restrained him like a straightjacket. His eyes were obsidian, expressionless. He was completely bald, and he didn’t smile. He spoke simply and without ceremony: “Jasmine Paal.” His eyes scanned the row of applicants, settled on Jasmine as the object of his search—she was smiling at him radiantly so it wasn’t difficult to guess she was the one he wanted—and stepped aside for her to precede him into the room beyond.
Jasmine sprang up from her seat, kissed Tommy on the cheek, gave him a dinky wave and disappeared into the room. The huge man closed the door after her. For a moment, the kiss still tingling on his cheek, Tommy felt like following her. The whole set up was slightly sinister and the bald, unfriendly giant wasn’t helping the ambience. He glanced at the two other applicants, a young girl and boy in their early twenties. If this all turned dodgy, these two student types wouldn’t be able to help out. He got up and paced the room, ignoring the couple who watched him, maybe feeling the same trepidation as Tommy.
He found himself thinking of Trish, and a wave of sadness broke through him. The phenomenon that was Jasmine had driven all thoughts of his marital problems from his mind, but now they returned twice as hard. But did he really care, or was he just scared of being alone? He stopped pacing and reached inside his pocket for his phone, torn whether to ring Trish, ask for one last try. Then he thought of Jasmine—that cute little mole on her neck, the radiant smile, the pinkness of her lips and fingernails… He put the cell back in his pocket and sat down again.
Twenty minutes, half an hour passed, and Tommy’s fears began to resurface. What the hell were they doing in there? He assumed there had to be more people involved in the audition than just the big man—he hadn’t struck Tommy as much of the casting director type. The two students were looking equally impatient now. The girl was relatively pretty, quite strident with dark bushy hair and a big chin. The young man fidgeted next to her. Tommy guessed he was a wannabe boyfriend but was too fat and slobby to stand a chance of that: buddy material only, no charm but a good laugh on a night out. Tommy had heard Fatboy declare a good ten minutes ago that he would give it another five minutes and then fuck off. A further ten went by before the door opened and Jasmine emerged, all giggles and leopard print.
Tommy glowed inside when he saw her, and jumped up to take the hand she offered him. “How did it go?” he asked her, aware of the bald hulk standing waiting in the doorway behind her.
“I’ll tell you later. Good luck, hun.” She was making for the door.
“What? Oh. Okay. But…” He didn’t even have her number, and the big man was staring right at him like he was an insect that should probably be squidged.
“Tommy Wallace?” He had somehow identified which applicant on his list was Tommy, and kept his eyes firmly on the supporting artist as Tommy turned reluctantly away from Jasmine. She stepped through the outer door without a further word. Oh well, there goes another one, Tommy thought and stepped past the big man.
He found himself in a small dark room. A lamp on a metal table in one corner, the rest of the room shadowed. He could see a pair of legs wearing jeans and trainers on the edge of the lamplight, the rest of the body and the chair it sat upon lost in the dark. Okay…not at all creepy…
He waited for the big man to give him some instructions, but the giant merely stood by the door—to prevent Tommy leaving? But Jasmine had been allowed to leave. He cleared his throat waiting for the man in the chair to move or say something, his unease raising a notch or two.
The legs finally moved as a shadowy figure got to its feet, still remaining theatrically hidden.
“Hello…?” he said at last, nerves strained by the silence. “I’m Tommy Wall—”
“I know who you are,” said a voice Tommy recognized all too well. His breath came out in an involuntary gasp of relief. He took a step towards the circle of light by the table.
“No. Wait there. You have to perform your audition in the dark.”
“Really?” Tommy peered around the shadowy room looking for any sign of a casting director or anyone else in the room besides himself, the big man and his good buddy Mark. “Who do I perform to?”
“To whom, you mean. Tut. Grammar. Why, to me, of course.” Mark stepped forward a little, though his face was still obscured. “The director trusts my judgement.”
Well that’s me screwed then, thought Tommy. So this was all just another platform for Mark to display the size of his ego.
“I might as well leave now then…” he laughed in a forced manner.
“Why would that be?”
He decided not to go down that route. “So what do I do?”
“The director wants to judge your reactions to extreme stimuli…”
Tommy resisted the urge to approach Mark again. This melodramatic act was beginning to irritate him now. “Sounds fun…”
“You might think so.” As he spoke a projector screen flicked into view on the far wall. The sudden bright light picked out Mark’s smug features harshly. And yes, he looked smugger than ever. “Your reactions will be recorded by a fixed camera to your left. All you have to do is react to the images we’re about to show you.”
Tommy automatically looked to his left, where the hulking doorman waited in the gloom. He could just make out a security cam at head height in the wall next to him.
A spotlight clicked on directly above his head, making him blink. The spot picked out his face for the camera. Very clever, he admitted grudgingly. He turned back to the screen as a wash of colour filled the room. He stiffened. Vicky, the model from Elite Agency he’d fancied on the set of Men From Uncle was sitting on the edge of a bed in a nondescript room. She was wearing clothes not so dissimilar to her costume in the film, a crop top and mini. Her blonde hair was piled on her head, her slightly vacant blue eyes staring straight at the camera, wide and trusting and a little freaked out. And now he knew why those blue, scared eyes had been so familiar in the website promo. Following an off-screen instruction from a gruff voice, she began unbuttoning the top.
Tommy looked over at Mark, whose features remained inscrutable. “What the fuck?” he said, confusion and anger in his tone.
“That’s a reaction for a start.” Mark’s eyes remained fixed on the projector screen. “Keep watching.”
Vicky had removed the crop top. Her bra was shiny pink, hugging her pert little breasts. She waited for the next instruction. When it came, she obeyed without much compunction, though her eyes looked even less confidant—and there at last was the touch of fear captured in the promo clip. She was doing as she was told, but something was making her scared. Acting? She hadn’t been that good in Uncle. She unhooked the bra, let it drop to the bedspread.
“Fuck’s sake, Mark! Is this a joke?” Tommy deliberately stared at the other man, although very aware of Vicky’s pink nipples out of the corner of his eye.
“Take a look, Tommy. You know you want to.”
“No. This is all a wind up. Fuck it! I’m out of here.” He turned towards the doorman.
“But you can’t leave yet, Tommy. The audition isn’t over.”
“Yes it is. It never was an audition, was it? Just an opportunity for you to gloat. You knew I fancied Vicky.”
“Then look. Look at her. Don’t lie to yourself, to your own body. You want to look…”
And Tommy couldn’t help himself. He looked. Vicky was standing up now, the mini riding down her sleek thighs. She paused, naked but for pink, shiny panties.
“And you’re wrong, Tommy. This is the audition piece. It’s not created especially for you. How egotistical of you to even think that. You are experiencing the same visuals that the couple outside will experience. The same that the rather attractive lady who preceded you experienced. So I’m sorry to disappoint you, Thomas: it’s not all about you.”
And Jasmine had emerged from the audition giggling! Maybe she had been turned on by this… Tommy didn’t know exactly how that made him feel. But he would have been lying if he didn’t admit to a little trill of excitement. He resisted the urge to go over and smash Mark, and carried on watching.
Vicky took another look at the camera before pulling down her panties. Tommy heard the rustle of material as they slid down her thighs. She posed elegantly, a little shy yes, (a little scared too) but aware that she had a beautiful, slender body.
Then the screen went dark. Vicky was still there; Tommy could hear her startled breathing. There were no more off-screen instructions, but Tommy could tell by the sound of heavy boots and a clink of metal that someone else was in the room. The metal sound came again, and Tommy thought of tools clanking together. It was a dull sound, unnerving in the context.
Then came the sound of a blow—of a heavy object thudding into soft flesh—and the first scream.
Tommy jerked. He glanced towards the dim figure of Mark, implacable beside the table, then at the doorman, then back at the pitch dark of the screen. Vicky was sobbing uncontrollably. A plea rose from the dark. “Don’t, please! What are you doing?” Tommy heard what sounded like a machine being loaded, clink, clink, clink. Then a metallic percussion and a zip of sound. Another thud. Another scream. The percussion sound again, the zip, the thud, the scream.
And Tommy had heard that sound before…An image of a workman riveting a sheet of metal in a factory he had worked in for a week or two one summer during Uni. The percussion of the nail gun trigger, the thud of the rivet slamming through steel, although there had been no whoosh of air parted by the projectile, and certainly no rip of flesh that he was hearing now. No screams either. He would definitely have remembered those…
“Switch that fucking thing off now!” He ducked out of the spotlight and made for the shadowy figure of Mark. The doorman moved instantly, a hand as big as Tommy’s head clamping around his bicep, immobilising him.
The screen flicked to plain white again and then switched off completely. Mark was clapping slowly, sardonically.
“You’re not right in the head, Hamm,” Tommy said, pulling futilely against the giant’s grip.
“Horror Story,” Mark replied, completely unperturbed by Mark’s reactions. “We’re making a Horror Story, Thomas, or did you forget? What did you expect from your audition—gags and a comedy soundtrack?”
Tommy was breathing fast and heavy, and very aware that he was back under the spot and the red eye of the security camera was still fixed on him.
“Switch that light off!”
The spot went dark above him.
“Mr Wallace is leaving now,” Mark said matter-of-factly. The giant released him instantly. Tommy controlled his breathing and made for Mark again. The giant followed him warily.
“You really don’t need to worry, Thomas. The lovely Vicky is alive and well and probably stripping for someone else right now. She was paid well for her scenes, I’m told.”
“That was sick. She sounded terrified.”
“Maybe she was a better actress than you gave her credit for.”
“She wasn’t an actress at all. She was a model. And that didn’t sound like an act.”
“Oh, I’m sure some of it wasn’t. They wanted to keep some verisimilitude, you know. But I’m told she was completely unharmed, albeit maybe a little unnerved.”
“Fuck this. Let me out of here.”
“Of course. The door is unlocked. Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch shortly.”
Tommy snorted and stepped around the bulky shadow of the giant and groped for the door. After a bit of fumbling he found the knob and swung the door open.
Out in the waiting room, the two students looked up expectantly.
Tommy emerged into the relative brightness and felt the relief dawn brings after a particularly upsetting nightmare.
“Good luck!” he said to the students with heavy irony. They gaped at him uncomprehendingly.
Tommy pushed through the outer door and thumped down the concrete steps, still nauseous and unsettled. Had he just been the recipient of a very unpleasant practical joke? Or was it indeed a rather twisted take on the typical audition piece, all done to record the gamut of his reactions, just as Mark had said it was? Either way, he felt sickened and abused. And he didn’t believe for a moment that Jasmine had been subjected to the same process. If only he’d had her number he would have rung her.
He emerged into daylight, futilely hoping she would be waiting for him out in the unremitting drizzle. He looked up resentfully at the grey abomination of sixties architecture. He thought about deleting Mark’s phone number from his contact list (it wouldn’t be for the first time) but dismissed the idea. He hadn’t finished with Hamm yet: he wanted some proper answers. He climbed into his Polo and drove off through the rain.