Chapter Sixteen

Billy Winter suddenly knew there was no choice. He had to find that band. He had to work with it, and if it meant putting up with the sad comic and the old queen, so be it. He looked to where he thought the camera was.

“Okay, look all you like. You won’t catch me. I’m clean. I don’t need dope. But man, I need that band. You get that band and you’ve got me.”

He then grinned and strode to the door, opened it and walked back into the Green Room, where Mickey was slumped in his chair, eyes glazed with glutinous satisfaction. The door slid silently to. The lock clicked unheard by either man.

Billy breathed deeply. He was exhilarated. The world was going to need him again. Already he felt a rush of success surging through his veins. It was going to be like the old days. He bounced across to Mickey and punched him on the arm.

“Hey man, this gig is going to be a sell-out. Did you hear the band?”

Mickey eyed the singer warily. “What band?”

Billy looked briefly at the door. “Never mind.” He was suddenly jealous of his knowledge. It was his band. It was not for sharing.

It was then an agitated Thornton pushed open the Green Room door.

“They give you a hard time?” asked Billy, remembering his own spell of interrogation.

“What?” Thornton tried to gather his wits, to control the tidal flow of memories the trip into virtual reality had unleashed.

“They give you a hard time?” Billy was insistent. “Drag up stuff you’d forgotten.”

Thornton took a deep breath. “They certainly did that,” he murmured, “memories that should be left in the cess pit.”

“Dirty deeds eh?” Billy said with a leer. “And I’ll bet there were a few.”

“Oh shut up.” Thornton became impatient. Then his head turned slowly towards the door. He stared. A puzzled look crossed his face; then a frown and then a look of determination as he strode suddenly towards it.

Mickey and Billy stared with interest as the actor opened the door and strode inside.

“Well,” said Mickey. “We won’t see him for a while.”

“No,” said Billy. Jealous thoughts of the band crossed his mind briefly.

“Interesting wasn’t it?” Mickey was fishing.

“Yes.” Billy was not biting. “It was interesting.”

Mickey stared at the door. “Do you think he’ll pass?”

“What?”

“Pass the test. I mean, it was a test wasn’t it?”

“I suppose it was.”

“Did you pass you reckon?”

“With flying colours.”

“Me too; no way could they tempt me. I was too strong.” Mickey laughed. “Silly girls, there was no way they would put one over on Mickey Finnegan. I was onto ‘em from the start.”

“Yeah, and me,” said Billy. “No way were they going to get me. They had a hidden camera.”

“I know,” said Mickey.

“Did you see it?”

“No, but it was there. I could feel it.”

“That’s right. I knew it was there. I had a look round, but it I couldn’t find it.”

Mickey shuddered. “They’re a weird mob. I mean spying on us just for a play.” He was still fishing. “You see anything about the play in there?”

“No.” Billy was not going to talk about the band. “Did you?”

“No.” Mickey was not going to mention the comedy.

They fell into silence as two pairs of eyes focused on the soft glow of the door.

The needling from Billy went unheeded when Thornton heard the siren song of the door. It was the murmur of muted voices, a faint splash of water, the deep-throated chuckle of amusement; an excited shriek from someone in delicious pain then an ecstatic moan.

The voices were vaguely familiar as was the created atmosphere. Familiar but from where? He tried to solve the conundrum, but realised there was only one way. Go through the door. Knowing became a need. He marched to the door and turned the handle. The wooden edifice swung smoothly open and Thornton stepped inside. It was dark, but the light from the Green Room filtered through. He saw vague figures, colours, shapes, a candle glow, but as the door slid silently to and the darkness intensified.

The hum of familiar noise was still there. Thornton closed his eyes to accustom them to the darkness and strained his ears to locate the source of the sound. When he opened his eyes the room was still dark, but flames from the candle, no, candles, added an eerie light to the gloom.

He peered into the dimness, trying to pin-point exactly where he was. The familiarity suddenly disappeared. The room began to grow lighter. Someone was using a dimmer switch.

Then he heard the noises again. They came from outside the room. They were louder and he recognised them. Someone, someone close by, was having a pool party. Then he remembered the outside the theatre, the red bricks and concrete. It was hardly the place for a swimming pool. The sounds were reminiscent of California, sun-warmed, the vague voices lubricated by alcohol - and the noises? From people who endured for pleasure. It was a scene he had played many, many times.

The room was now lit by cleverly and expensively concealed lighting. The figures he’d seen in the gloom took on substance. They were mannequins, mannequins from the darkest room of the Hellfire Club.

Thornton felt desire rise in him as he savoured the sight. The lifelike figures were dressed in leather, or rubber, or bound in stainless steel chains and leather thongs. The sightless, hairless heads were silent, androgynous indicators of pleasure and pain.

Thornton moved forward and he saw more. He saw display cases, doors open, filled with erotic underwear, huge phalluses carved from ivory and jade, carvings so old they could have dropped to earth with the fallen angel and figures of equal antiquity, locked into positions of passion for eternity.

To a collector of eroticism like Thornton, they appeared exquisite, so too the paintings and drawings. Some in photographic detail, other in impressionistic style, but all glorifying acts of lust in all its styles and perversions.

Thornton moved through, eyes devouring the sights, feeling a stronger and stronger arousal. He paused in front of the tableau of the woman, tall, Amazonian, with leather-thonged whip held high over the naked man on the ground. These were no mannequins. These were life-like sculptures in mortician’s wax, as real as a wax museum. The triumph in the woman’s showed her power and the glistening eyes of the naked man bore testament to his anticipation of the pain that brought his sexual satisfaction.

His heart-beat increased as he moved through this museum of perversion. Then he saw something else. It was more mundane, but also one that had the allure of promised pleasure - the simple plasterboard wall. The foam protected holes that were the anonymous sex-holes from the days of repression.

Those days were long gone, but Thornton remembered stories of the men who lurked furtively in the toilet blocks where such holes were created. It was the meeting place of the persecuted who stood with the knowledge that on the other side of the wall was an unknown someone seeking the same pleasure. Mostly... sometimes there was pain without pleasure. To experience the hole in the wall was something he had often yearned for in his jaded fantasies. Now that final fantasy could be realised.

The talk was always of the excitement and the thrust through the hole. The wondering of what was next. Hand, mouth, anus, a sadistic hetero bent on inflicting pain. Mostly it was pleasure, but always there was the excitement of not knowing.

Thornton licked his lips. This was something new, a living fantasy. Murmuring came from the other side of the wall. He felt an urge to find out more and he moved closer. He bent down to look through the hole. He could smell the remnants of sex, but saw nothing.

He straightened, felt the throb in his trousers and a craving for sex. It was stronger than it had been for a long time. He stroked himself through his trousers and stared again at the hole in the wall. The thought was irresistible. Hands shaking he began to unzip his trousers. To find a new experience was beyond belief; what would he find on the other side, ecstasy, or agony?

There was no answer, until he found out by experience.

But then he saw a flash of reflected light. He pulled back into a shadow. The light, he would swear was reflected from a lens - a camera lens.

His heart pounded and his erection slid to nothing. Cameras! He was being watched. Monitored. The women were watching him. The temptations around were a trap. Only they and their damn computer could know of his unlived fantasy.

He straightened up and stared into the darkness above him, the concealed lights grew dimmer, and above them the darkness grew thicker. “I know you are watching,” he said. “You can try all you like. You will not trick Belvedere Thornton into adding footage to your tedious file of pornographic images. I know you are there.” He felt the presence of the camera, but he could not see it.

Convinced then that he had their measure he strolled leisurely around the display, stopping to examine some exhibits more closely, riffling through an occasional volume, and caressing some of the more sensual looking items.

It was while browsing through a shelf of leather bound, ancient volumes of witchcraft and spells, he found the sketches. They were pushed ungraciously in between the Malleus Maleficarum, the handbook of the Inquisition, and the memoirs of Alistair Crowley, the greatest warlock who ever lived.

The texture intrigued Thornton immediately. Where the books were mouldering and ancient and spotted with insect droppings, the sketches were of today. They were drawn in black ink on bleached white paper. He studied them and the hand-written notes that accompanied them. Finally his lower lips dropped as his jaw sagged. He jerked his head upwards and stared at the exhibition. This was no museum of erotica. This was the theatre wardrobe and props room. He was looking at the costumes for the play.

“My God,” he murmured. He took the sketches with him and inspected the display again. With a professional analysis he linked the costumes to the character names on the sketches. And he knew. He would be Brunio, the all-powerful Roman emperor, a new Caligula, and, he glanced around, he would have a cast of thousands. He heard the murmuring again from behind the wall. Had rehearsals already begun for the minor characters?

He felt his heart beating strongly. He could feel the power of Brunio. A newly discovered play by Shakespeare, oh my God, he prayed, let it be so. He suddenly became aware of the threat of the surveillance camera. He hugged the sketches to his chest and hurried back to the bookcase, where he pushed them back into their hole.

Then he marched across the room in ever increasing darkness until he arrived at the door. Briskly he opened it and crossed into the Green Room, where the brightness of the fluorescent lights dazzled him momentarily.