Chapter Seventeen

In his stygian blackness of his room, the amorphous mass that was Joshua Lucy rippled with laughter. How juicy. How nice. They had all passed the test.

He leaned towards a video camera at the rear of his desk and a wisp of a finger turned it on. The red light blinked. At the same time a monitor flickered into life revealing Angela and Diana. He watched in satisfaction as they recoiled from the sight of his face, but lived with enough fear to keep looking.

He turned a dial and altered the pixel structure to project a more pleasing portrait.

“Well?” The voice came through, modulated, cultured.

“Promising,” said Diana, eager to please.

“I particularly like Winter,” purred Angela, her fear mingled with excitement.

“Is that emotion or honest judgement?” There was nothing to be read in the voice. It simply screamed quietly for an honest answer.

Angela smiled her most winning smile, but her heart felt cold. “It isn’t pure professional interest,” she said

Lucy snorted with amusement. “When was anything about you ever pure?”

“I’m sure we could go a long way together,” said Angela.

“I’m sure you could.” Diana’s voice was schoolmarm prim; reprimanding.

Angela heard the tone and gave her a sweet smile. “It would only be temporary of course - for the run of the play.” She arched her eyebrows and showed her teeth in a cheeky smile.

Lucy’s image laughed loudly. He enjoyed the games that Angela played.

Diana bridled. “He’s not through the audition yet,” she snapped.

Lucy’s lips pursed in gentle admonition; “Temper, temper,” he said, mocking.

“I just feel there is a slackening of professional attitude,” she said, sullenly. She was not secure in the presence of Lucy, even when he was only an image.

Angela’s face took on a more earnest expression. “I feel that he has already showed tremendous potential. He has achieved so much in such a short time. He has the right - qualities.”

Lucy concurred. “He does project brutality we search for. His amorality is superb, although he did waver.”

His image disappeared to be replaced by a fast forward shot of Billy Winter, face haggard, lips tight. The speed slowed to normal. “For fuck’s sake, wouldn’t you?” The voice was husky in replay. The eyes haunted by memory. “For fuck’s sake wouldn’t you?” The voice echoed and echoed. Then the image faded to be replaced by Lucy’s stern looking visage.

Angela shrugged her shoulders. “It was only a momentary lapse I’m sure. I can feel his rightness.”

“I’m not as positive as Angela,” said Diana. “It might be a small fault that could be corrected, but on the other hand, it could be the tiny flaw that can ruin the finished product.”

“You always err on the side of caution, which is why you are where you are,” said Lucy. “What about our Mr Finnegan?”

Diana smiled. Her red lips parted and showed shark teeth. “For all his jolly exterior, he has a depth to him - and a ruthless drive.”

“Which are sterling qualities,” admitted Lucy. A small frown clouded Angela’s perfect face. Lucy’s eyes focuses on her. “Is there something wrong?”

Angela shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. There’s something that doesn’t gel. I’m not sure what it is. I’ll need to review the tape.”

The picture flicked on the screen. Mickey, tortured by the visions he had seen. “I hated it,” he said. “I hated it.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it, the hint of remorse.”

Lucy’s head appeared again. Angela lowered her eyes and Diana turned away. “Sorry,” came as a soft murmur from the monitor. There was a shift in pattern. “It’s all right now.”

The women looked at the screen. The image was respectable again.

“The fault was no more than Winter’s,” said Diana.

“Then the same applies,” said Lucy.

“I still feel he is the better prospect. He has lived so much longer. He has experience on his side.”

“Billy could mature quickly.” Angela’s interjection was too quick.

“With your help of course:” Diana’s words carried frost.

“Thornton?” Lucy brought the discussion to a close.

Diana’s eyes glowed. “He is marvellous,” she said.

“I look forward to his reading,” said Angela. “He is almost too good to be true.”

Lucy’s image roared with laughter. “I like your turn of phrase,” he gurgled. “But he could be the find of a lifetime, destined to be the eternal star.”

“He still has to read,” demurred Angela.

“Yes,” said Lucy. “They all have to read. Oh, they passed the Green Room test, all of them. They have no idea why they are here or where they are. Each has created his own fantasy. They can smell their roles now. They want the roles. They need the roles.”

“Hopefully,” added Diana, “they will win the roles.”

“After all,” said Angela, “the play really is thing.”

“You know your Shakespeare,” said Lucy.

“So I should. “Angela pouted “I... “

“That’s fine Angela,” cut in Lucy. “Give our auditionees a ten minute call. Make them feel at home. And then come into my room.” With a smile that began as gentle mock and ended as a diabolical leer, Lucy’s image morphed into horrific reality and faded.

The women stared for a second at the screen and then at each other. Fear, excitement, and lust mingled in their collective emotions. Diana gave a huge, heartfelt sigh, and Angela nodded. They did not need words to express their feeling for Joshua Lucy.

Diana leaned forward and spoke into a microphone. “If you gentlemen could return to the stage in ten minutes, the auditions will continue. Thank you.”

The voice of Diana boomed into the Green Room out of nowhere and it frightened the life out of the three men.

“Jesus,” shouted Mickey, leaping to his feet.

Billy glared round. “No need to bloody shout,” he muttered, heart beating at speed.

Thornton controlled his body, but his heart was racing. The sudden noise in the silence of the room, where all three were lost in their own reveries, was a heart stopper.

Billy paced round the room. “Nothing,” he said, “bloody nothing. No speakers anywhere. Unless they’re hidden, like the camera. What is this place?”

“Whatever else it might be,” said Thornton quietly. “It is certainly a high tech wonderland.”

“It’s also bloody spooky,” said Mickey.

Billy remembered the band, softly out of reach. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s spooky.”

Thornton opened his mouth to speak, but a gasp fell from it. “My God where did that come from?” He was looking at the clock that sat, white faced, with black hands on the white wall.

The two other men stared. The face of the clock stared silently down. The little hand was close to 12, midday or midnight? The large hand was on 10 and the second hand clicked remorselessly on.

“Must have been there all the time,” said Mickey.

“I never saw it,” said Billy.

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” said Mickey. “They don’t want us to be late.”

Billy gazed at the clock and then walked to the door. “What’s next? I couldn’t take any more of those video clips. Fuck!!!,” he thumped the door. “Why did bloody Genghis send me here? I want to go home.” Then he heard the band, the riff, floating in his head. “No, he’s smarter than I thought. I need this show.”

Mickey stared at the singer. “I know,” he said. “It’s going to take you back to the top, right?”

Billy stared back. “What do you know?”

“The same as you; I saw something in that room.” He sighed. “I have a feeling everything’s going to be fine now. The hard work’s over. We just have to read.”

“I agree.” Thornton’s sallow face broke into a smile. “The hard work is over. Now we consolidate. We shall all be reborn ...” He looked at the clock, “in just about five minutes time.”

All three felt his euphoria and they stood mesmerised, and watched the second hand sweep round the face of the clock.

They were so intent on watching the passing of time; they didn’t see the small, worry-faced man in the white suit watching them from behind the hot food bar.

When both hands of the clock hit 12 the three auditionees scurried for the door. Thornton reached it first and jerked it open. He stepped into the darkness. Swirls of colour fled past his eyes. He blinked as Billy, guitar in hand, and Mickey, clutching the battered ukulele, joined him.

The door slammed shut and the light from beneath disappeared. The wings were as black as the entrance passageways had been. The three men stood still. The euphoria had dissipated into fear.

They were back into the unknown.

The blackness dissolved slowly and gently into twilight as the glow from the stage crept towards them. Slowly and carefully, the trio of hopefuls moved on. As the light grew stronger, their pace increased until they reached the forbidden door of Joshua Lucy’s den.

Mickey wrinkled his nose in disgust as they passed by.

“I’m sure something died in there,” he muttered. “What a stink.”

The men strode onto the stage. The hot glare had been replaced by the cooler dimness of working lights. There was a subtle change in atmosphere. Oddly, there was no feeling of the presence of Diana and Angela. Not a whiff of perfume, no waves of heat, nothing. It was as if they had never existed which was odd for two such powerful personalities. There was nothing tangible in the atmosphere at all. No feeling of reality, no feeling of theatre. It was an image of limbo.

The computer monitors glowed with highly coloured screen-savers. Mickey glanced at them, did a classic double take, and moved in closer. He saw animated figures of himself as a character he had never even imagined, let alone seen.

“Hey, come and look at this,” he called.

The two other men came quickly. Nothing was going to surprise them anymore, but they still wanted to stay informed.

“What about that then,” said Mickey.

They stared, both seeing different forms.

“Yeah,” said Billy. “It’s cute.”

“Mmm,” pondered Thornton, as he admired the images, “fascinating, but hardly cute.”

Billy stared at the actor, began to speak, but thought better of it. He moved away and stared into the auditorium. The stage lighting had been dimmed, but he still could not penetrate into the blackness. He shrugged and turned away.

Mickey strode up and down the stage, peering into the darkness of the wings, trying to pin down the smell that came from Lucy’s room. But it was elusive. Dead, rotting rats or wet carpet in a locked room... last night’s dried vomit ...

Thornton sat in a chair. His mind swirled with the memory of the scenes that were created behind the polished door in the Green Room. He noticed no smell and Billy said nothing.

Ten minutes passed before anyone spoke. And then it was Mickey. He looked at his watch. The hands were motionless still and he was becoming increasingly nervous. Thornton was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, and Billy sat motionless on the edge of the stage.

“They said ten minutes,” said Mickey. “It must be 20 minutes at least by now.”

There was no response from anyone.

He strummed the ukulele. “Grilling us like pork chops and then doing the disappearing act.” He paused. Then, in higher pitch, continued. “Here, you don’t think they’ve gone do you? Left us here?”

Billy turned and faced Mickey. “Why would they do that?” He strode back to the computer bank. “They wouldn’t leave all this gear behind would they?”

“So why aren’t they here then?” asked Mickey, with an edge of aggression in his voice.

“How the fuck do I know?” snapped Billy. “Maybe they’re having lunch, or something.”

“No,” Mickey was positive. “They’re not here for a reason. There’s something fishy going on. I can smell it.”

Billy burst out laughing. “That’s the best joke you’ve made since you got here. Fishy ...” He laughed again. The line hit the unsophisticated schoolboy in him.

“It wasn’t a joke,” growled Mickey.

“How do you know?” scowled Billy. “How can you tell?”

Mickey pointed a threatening finger. “I’m getting sick of your snide remarks,” he said.

“So sue me,” said Billy. He thrust a sneering face forward, but then judiciously turned his back, away from the inherent violence that flowed from Mickey’s rotund body.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” shouted the exasperated Mickey rhetorically. “You’re just a worn-out, dope-riddled old rocker. You’ve got no right to keep riding me.”

Billy, put up a restraining hand. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Yeah, well ...” grumbled Mickey, slightly mollified by the change of tack. “No point in squabbling all the time is there? I mean, we’ve got to work together in the show haven’t we?”

He sniffed and wrinkled up his nose. “That stink is getting worse. Can’t you smell it?”

“I can smell the rotten old building,” said Billy. He breathed deeply through his nose. “It smells worse than rotten.”

“Yes,” agreed Mickey. “Like something upped and died, long ago.” He suddenly had visions of the nightmare, the dead men, the tattooed arms, and... the worms. He shuddered involuntarily. He felt fear, but of what he couldn’t say His eyes roamed the dimly lit stage. “Where are they?”

Billy sniffed again. The malodorous atmosphere had not yet crept back into his soul. “Beats me,” he said. “All this squalor, dirt, grime, and stink; it’s like no-one been inside for a hundred years and yet that Green Room,” he paused, “it was space-age. It wasn’t something you could just knock up in half an hour, not unless you had your own personal genie or something.”

“Genie?” Mickey’s voice lifted an octave. “That’s stupid.”

“All right then, smart arse. You explain it. You explain how, in this filthy flea pit, there’s a brand new, all mod-cons Green Room.”

“They must be modernising. Yes that’s it.” Mickey’s face cracked into a smile. “They’ve bought the place and they modernising it for the play.”

“So they start with a Green Room?”

“Well you’ve got to start somewhere,” said Mickey. He sniffed again. “I wish they’d get on with it, clean out whatever died under this stage.”

“It comes from, the room back there, the one with the light coming out from under the door,” volunteered Billy.

“I know,” said Mickey. “I didn’t think anybody else noticed.”

“He did.” Mickey pointed his thumb in the direction of the recumbent Thornton.

Billy chuckled. “The only thing he ever sees is himself the arrogant bastard. Greedy bugger too. See how he got stuck into the food.”

“Yeah,” said Mickey. “Mind you, I can’t blame him. It was class stuff.”

“You didn’t do so bad yourself.” Billy let his eyes roam over Mickey’s rounded belly.

Mickey’s hand went involuntarily to his paunch. “I was hungry,” he protested, “And they had all my favourite dishes.”

Billy eyed the comic, sneakily. “I always thought boozers didn’t eat.”

Mickey bit back. “I told you, I’m not a boozer. I just hit the bottle when my wife died.” He experienced heart pangs. God she was so beautiful.

“If you believe that you’ll believe anything,” cut in Billy.

Mickey held out his hands, steady as a rock. “See? I haven’t even thought about a drink. That binge last night must have cured me.”

“You can’t cure alkies.”

“I am not an alcoholic!” There was fury rising in Mickey’s voice again.

Billy grinned. “That’s what they all say. But it’s true, you never did ask about a drink.” He moved close to Mickey and prodded him in the stomach. The comic took a step backwards. “But you are fat aren’t you?”

“I am not.” Mickey tried, unsuccessfully to pull his stomach in.

Billy closed in again, prodding harder and harder. “What’s this then?” he countered, “Santa padding?”

Mickey turned his back on the singer. “I’m just built that way,” he muttered. Then he whirled round again. “Anyway you did pretty well yourself. I saw you stuff all those goodies inside you.”

Billy reacted with surprise. “I did, didn’t I? That’s funny ‘cause I’ve never been much of an eater. I’m always too... nervous.”

“Too doped you mean.” Mickey’s face lit up. “Wait ‘till you get your withdrawal symptoms. That’ll be worth watching.”

Billy interjected just a little too fast. “I don’t get ‘em.”

Mickey sensed the singer’s discomfort. He honed in. “You’ve probably never gone long enough without it. You’ll start to cramp up soon enough if they don’t turn up and let you out of here.”

“I told you,” Billy retorted. “I’m not hooked. I can take it or leave it.”

“That’s what they all say,” Mickey mimicked.

“Maybe, but I’m telling the truth.”

Mickey shook his head sadly. “You can’t stick drugs into your veins and take it or leave it. It doesn’t work that way.”

Billy took in a deep breath and glared at Mickey. “Okay then,” he said, finally. “If you’re so smart, tell me why I feel so good if I haven’t had as fix since last night? If I was hooked I’d be screaming for it by now. It was over eight hours ago.” He flexed his arms. “I don’t usually feel this good until I’ve had a fix.”

“And you’re not a junkie.” There was derision in Mickey’s voice.

“I’m not - and I can prove it.” Billy was not as certain as his tone implied, and Mickey sensed it.

“You’ll be a gibbering wreck by the time you get back wherever you came from,” he said.

Billy closed in on Mickey, so close the comic could feel his breath. Odd, it was sweet which was unusual in a man with all his vices. “I won’t be no wreck,” said the singer. “If I needed a fix I could get one right here and now - of any grade of any dope I wanted.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey was interested. “You carry a stash in your guitar then or up your arse where the cops can’t get at it?”

“Bloody funny, ha, ha,” said Billy. “If you really want to know, it’s in the room behind the door in the Green Room.”

Mickey laughed. “Now that is funny. I went in there, and I didn’t see any dope.”

“Well you didn’t look very hard,” insisted Billy. “The place was like a pharmaceutical company warehouse. Dope, needles, pills, powders. Rows of cocaine already laid out with silver straws next to them. Everything you could imagine.”

“You’re imagining all right,” chuckled Mickey, “dreaming. It was a club bar - a gentleman’s club bar and it smelt like money. Every drink you could think of - and it was help yourself. I could have got rotten in half an hour.”

“Crap,” snapped Billy. “It was filled with dope.”

“The drugs have addled your brain,” sneered Mickey.

“More like the booze has smashed your brain cells,” yelled Billy.

There was a pause as both men sifted their brains for more inane ammunition, but they had no time to resume for Thornton’s voice, projected at full volume, cut through the air.

“There were no people,” he said.