Chapter Eleven

The beer garden of the Shirley Ann pub in Peckham. A fifteen-second long-shot of two men facing each other across a table.

Cut to:

Boocock drinking a half. The other man holds a G&T in two hands. He’s in his late fifties, wears a trilby.

Cut to:

The long-shot. The beer garden gives onto a busy road with its drift of trucks, buses, black cabs, cars often blocking our view of the two drinkers.

Cut to:

An over-the-shoulder shot of the G&T man’s face. We see now he has a pencil moustache that he often strokes with his forefinger.

“They say you were a friend of Thom’s, Mr Baron,” Boocock says.

“He was a regular here.”

“Like you.”

“We regularly talked business.” Baron takes a sip of his drink.

“What sort of business?”

“The private kind.”

“Did Thom work for you?”

“We were partners. In imports.”

“They say the stuff just walked off the boats.”

“They say a lot.”

“Are they right?”

“It was strictly on the up.”

“How did Thom cop it?”

“Canada Water. A nasty affair. The chains snapped, see. The pallet dropped a good thirty feet before it hit him. It was obvious he was an immediate goner.”

“You saw it?”

“I only knew it was Thom when we dragged the pallet off. Messy. You wouldn’t want to see the like.”

“But he was dead.”

“A dramatic end. Like one of the characters in your books.”

“You’ve read them?”

“I’m a real fan of Pier Pressure.”

“Not my best.”

“Never pays to underestimate yourself.”

Cut to:

The long-shot. There’s a huge gap in the traffic. Boocock and Baron continue talking. Then a hearse travels right to left, followed by a cortege of slow-moving cars.

Fade to Black.

My head was still busy working through the images of the Shirley Ann scene on the way out to Abdi’s shoot. I enjoyed the fact that we were forced to watch a personal conversation from afar, that we had to strain to listen in, that this construct made us want to catch every word more than ever. And the passing traffic created another physical barrier, the noise serving to stymie any possible eavesdropping. For me, the hearse was a beautiful full stop, a reminder of the passage of Thom Greene’s life. I was moved.

I’d watched the camerawork closely too because, after seeing Hegley’s short at Raindance, Abdi had decided he wanted that particular look and feel for his new film and had given a job to Greene Land’s director of photography Bob Crasker. This gave me a great chance of finding out more about what had become my favourite film, and about Hegley.

It was still early morning when I arrived with my audio gear at the Gunwhale Estate out near Surrey Water and the Rotherhithe Tunnel. It was a depopulated seventies council property and Adbi had successfully pleaded with the local authorities to give the last couple of blocks a stay of demolition for four weeks while he completed a shoot set almost entirely on location.

I found the crew crowded into the old caretaker’s office, and someone immediately pushed an instant coffee and a heavily sugared doughnut into my mitt. Abdi had gone off with the cameraman checking out spots for scenes, would be back shortly, I was told. I took the opportunity to do some scouting of my own, went cup and pastry in hand on a Gunwhale walkabout.

The estate was bleak. The duo of one-hundred-and-fifty-yard-long barrack-style buildings faced up to each other across a narrow passage, shutting out much of the daylight. They also managed to funnel in a nasty kick of wind off the Thames. The concrete blocks lifted up to six storeys, would have been mirror images of each other but for the scores of satellite dishes that had been planted like thorns along the landings. The place had evidently been abandoned by the residents a while ago – most of the windowpanes were broken and rags of curtain strained through evil-looking glass shards to snap at the breeze.

“Root!”

I spotted Abdi waving, hurrying towards me with a powerful-looking, grey-haired guy in his sixties whom I took to be Crasker.

Abdi grabbed my hand. “Damn good to see you,” he said. “Root Wilson, this is Bob. We’re out spotting.”

We shook greetings. Bob had in the corner of his mouth the stub of a bulging perfecto cigar that looked not to be lit.

“I hope Abdi’s being nice to you,” I said.

“He’s silk compared to most.”

“Follow me, Root,” Abdi said. “We’ve absolutely found some great stuff, haven’t we, Bob?”

He nodded. “I’ll have to drop out here, Abs,” he said. “I need to get back and do some prep.”

“This way,” Abdi told me.

I followed him into a stairwell and we climbed two flights until we were blocked by a series of two-by-fours nailed across a door frame. Abdi yanked a few of them away, then eased through the space. I squeezed after him and chased him up several flights stairs until I came out breathless on the top landing.

“The council would go positively crazy if they knew we were here,” Abdi said. “But we can’t possibly pass this up. Bob and I now have this idea of opening with a tracking shot of the protagonist pacing between the buildings. I see it running easily a good minute. Then there’ll be a super-extreme close-up.”

“Very Hegley.”

Abdi smiled. “Come on, we need to start shooting soon.”

We walked along the landing until we got to the northern end. The view was spectacular and we could see across the Thames to the towers at Canary Wharf – they were there to reach out and touch.

“This is a gold-plater of a location,” I said.

“Pretty crisp.” Abdi pulled open a small wooden door and started to climb a steel ladder. “Go steady.”

I was glad of the warning as the way up was sticky. A couple of rungs were missing, most of the rest rattled in their mounts, and the ladder rocked from side to side on each step. I finally pulled myself up into a loft right beneath a low-pitched roof, Abdi lighting my way with a torch.

He swung the beam around and lit up what looked like a bedsit right under the eaves – there was a double mattress, a kitchen table and chairs, a two-seater leatherette sofa, even a dressing table with mirror.

“These are fresh footprints.” I coughed. The dust hung thick in Abdi’s beam, smelled about a hundred years old. “It’s unbelievable.”

“I’m going to rewrite a couple of scenes and get this in,” Abdi said. “It’s an absolute gift.”

Abdi shone the torch onto a brick chimney breast someone had spraypainted. There was a single silver word. DETH.

*

I spent the morning knocking back pints of instant coffee, watched Abdi and crew manage to shoot just two short scenes. The first had little more than one of the actors banging on a window and shouting through a letter box, but took a couple of hours to get right. The second boasted a couple of shaven-headed toughs smashing in a front door with a mediaeval-looking battering ram that fell to pieces when first put into action. It was a moody, a film fake, and had to be given first aid. A foot-length of gaffer tape and a half-dozen nails did the business.

Everyone broke for lunch and Abdi took me to a boat cafe he’d found down by the river. “I want to be good to my friends in the media,” he said.

The moored boat was a Thames barge called The Gripie that had been refurbished and looked in top shape with its furled brown sails, richly waxed woodwork. We nabbed a table right up by a glossily painted leeboard and ordered food.

“What did you make of this morning?” Abdi asked.

“Bob knows his stuff.”

“Having him and this location is a real dream.”

“I’ll do an item for the show,” I said. “Helps us both out. Anything else I can do, just ask.”

“There’s a scene this afternoon. The actor phoned and says he’s stuck on a set way outside London. So we’re one short.”

“You’re surely not thinking I’ll do it, are you?”

He stared at me.

“Look, I’m no performer,” I said.

“You’re a broadcaster. A legitimate public figure.”

“Perfect face for radio, as they say.”

“Don’t go shy on me.”

“I really don’t think so, Abs.”

“The part’s scarcely a step-up from being an extra. And think how good it will be for your programme.”

“I’m not sure.” I knew, though, that he was totally right.

“Come on, Root. It’s non-speaking.”

“Well, as long as I get to keep my clothes on.”

He laughed.

*

When we got back from lunch, wardrobe went to work, dressed me for the scene in a soiled white T-shirt and blue jeans out at the knee, along with a pair of shabby black Converse. Makeup painted my face, mussed my hair.

Abdi walked me over to the set, a single room in one of the abandoned flats.

“This hasn’t been at all scripted,” he told me. “We need to improvise, given the nature of the scene.”

“Which is what? You haven’t told me a thing.” I was beginning to feel nervous, knew I should’ve turned him down.

“It’s very straightforward. There’s a tart waiting for you in the room. You’re the punter, see. All you have to do is go in, have quick sex, then leave pronto.”

“Funny.”

“Honest.”

“There’s no way…”

“Come on, it’s not as if you have to be bollock-naked,” he said. “All we’re asking for is a bit of simulation. It’ll be just a few seconds in the film.”

“Abs… ”

“Here, stick this down your pants.” He handed me a wedge of sponge. “Protects both parties to the act.”

“Christ, I haven’t even met her.”

“Which is why we went to lunch. I didn’t want to risk you seeing her. The fact that you haven’t clapped eyes on this woman before will be a terrific shot in the arm for the scene. You walk into the shot, you do your man stuff and you go.”

“Bloody hell, Abs.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he laughed. “Go in there and if you don’t fancy her in the slightest, pretend you’re doing it with Harry.”

I felt sick.

*

I stood by the door. Held my breath. Heard Abdi shout action. I couldn’t move. I thought of Roney and his sex scene. Surely if he could. But he was an actor. I wasn’t. I wanted to be back in the studio. Safe. Fuck you, Abdi.

Then I was moving. I was walking into the room, blocking the camera, the crew. I saw her. She stood with her back to the wall. Had on a skin-thin yellow summer dress. I walked over. I unfastened my jeans. I dropped them to my ankles. I lifted her dress, lifted her. I pressed her against the wall. She tied her legs around me. I certainly didn’t think of Harry. Here I was with Theresa Noble.

*

Abdi clapped me hard across the back when it was over. “Crisp,” he said.

“How come you signed Theresa up?” I asked. “You picking over Hegley’s bones?”

“Once I got the idea for Bob, I decided to do the homage thing.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Watch this space because there’s more to come.” He slapped me on the back again. “Thanks for your help, Root.’

Everyone moved on to the next set-up, leaving me alone in the room. Theresa’s fragrance was there with me, though, a hard, cheap scent she must have picked up for the role and used to get in character. I could also feel a soreness in the small of my back where she’d clawed me through my shirt. I rubbed my neck where she’d taken a bite.

I made my way back to wardrobe, changed into my clothes. I went outside and found a pool of sun, drank more coffee, ate half a packet of chocolate digestives, even cadged a cigarette – the first I’d lit up in years – from one of the sparks. He told me he enjoyed my scene, said he recognised my face from TV, The Bill isn’t it? He asked what else I’d been working on, didn’t seem worried by my lack of response to everything. He strolled off into the long space between the buildings. I watched him, a couple of cables coiled over a shoulder, toolbox in hand, until he slipped into a doorway.

Theresa arrived. “Root,” she said, “now I know you like me.”