Beauties and the Beast (19 page)

The entire audience in the smoke filled room took up the chant. “Tell us a story, tell us a story.” The bread rolls were pelted at him from all corners and he ducked and weaved trying to dodge them.

Thornton and Billy watched his antics with amusement.

“He's seeing things again,” said Thornton. “He's become a master of delusion.” He laughed at his joke.

“Probably got DTs,” said Billy, as Mickey danced around the front of the stage. He grinned, but it was not all malice. He felt camaraderie with Mickey now. He had an idea of what the comic was suffering. He was dancing to a different tune, but the drum was the same. He idly wondered if the little man in white was in Mickey's audience.

The amusement was not shared by Angela, Diana, and Mr Lucy. If the singer and the actor and bothered to look they would have seen three faces, twisted in a diabolic rage with red eyes flashing, teeth vampiric, finger nails taloned and bodies seething smoke. But they were concentrating solely on the comic and his pathetic antics.

Mickey recognised the fat man. It was his friend from the bar - and the blonde. Mickey furrowed his brow in concentrating as he tried to remember. Did she go with him or stay with the man?

A bread roll hit him on the face. “Tell us a story. Tell us a story.” The crowd was getting drunker, more rowdy, and dangerous in fact. From the corner of his eye Mickey saw the bouncers, the big men in dinner suits, eyeing him, ready to cast blame his way if troubled erupted.

“Tell us a story. Tell us a story. Tell us a story.” The words became a noisy mantra that seeped into Mickey's head. Then he could take no more.

“I can't,” he yelled, waving the parchment in the air. “There is no more.”

The noise faded. The lighting faded. The last thing he saw before the audience disappeared into darkness was the gleeful - so happy- face of the man in white. Then there was nothing. He turned to face the stage. “That's all there is,” he said.

“Thank God for that,” said Thornton with exaggerated feeling. “I felt I wanted to cry.”

“Emotion eh?” said Mickey “I thought I was pretty good. Brought tears to your eyes did I?”

“You certainly did,” said Thornton, voice flat with sarcasm.

“I never thought I could do Shakespeare,” said Mickey thoughtfully.

“You can't,” said Thornton icily.

“I thought you were pretty good for a sad old comic,” said Billy.

“Thanks a million.” He turned to the front again, looking for any remnant of the nightmare audience. But there was none. Even the memory was rapidly fading. “I don't suppose you saw anybody out there?” he asked, pointing into the darkness.

Billy said nothing. Thornton just snorted. Mickey sighed. “Didn't think you would have,” he said.

He looked towards the furrowed brows of management. He realised his chances of passing the audition had become slimmer. Sitting quietly next to Billy he picked up his ukulele and caressed it gently in his lap.

Chapter Twenty Five

Thornton seized the moment and grabbed the parchment from Mickey's fingers. “Now you shall see what a real actor can do with these words.”

Diana's head shot up, breaking her circle of concentration. “No,” she said.

Lucy passed her a sheet of white A4 from the folder on his desk and she hurried over to the actor. She smiled and took the parchment from Thornton's suddenly nerveless fingers and substituted the white paper.

“This is your audition piece,” she said.

“Pity.” said Thornton. “I was a masterful Mark Anthony on many occasions. Still, there are few words from the bard which haven't passed these lips. May I proceed?”

“Of course,” said Lucy, “This is something to which we are all looking forward.”

Thornton smiled and bowed his head slightly and strode to centre stage. Then he turned. “I assume you wish me to perform for
you
.” He looked pityingly then at Mickey and Billy. “Not to the darkness of an empty echo of a theatre.”

“To the front please,” said Lucy. “It's more... natural.”

Mickey giggled and Thornton's face set hard and he turned and with hardly a glance at the words he began his audition. Cold reading to him was simplicity itself. He created instant character from whatever words confronted him.

“Good evening, ladies, and gentlemen,” he intoned for full theatrical effect. “A funny thing happened to me on the way to this theatre.” He felt peculiar. No character was forming. He tried it again. Nothing. Then a ghastly thought crept into his mind and he read the script swiftly. The thought had been correct.

He stared angrily at the panel. He hit the piece of paper viciously over and over, with his free hand. “What is this?” He bellowed. “How dare you insult me with this,” he paused, for once in his life lost for words, “this drivel.” He screwed the paper up and threw it on the dusty floorboards.

“Mr Thornton.” Joshua Lucy stood and moved swiftly from behind the desk. “You must not get upset.” He bent and picked up the paper and straightened out the creases. “These words might appear to be drivel to a man of your classical ability, but there is meaning behind them.” He held out the paper, now as immaculate as when Thornton first handled it. “Persevere please?”

The question was a command, but Thornton chose to ignore it. “I will not,” he boomed. “This is the sort of moronic gibberish that pours from the mouths of Neanderthal fools like him.” He thrust out his arm, finger pointed and quivering, towards Mickey.

Mickey laughed in delight. “I thought I recognised the opening gambit,” he crowed. “He's got a comedy script.” He strummed his tuneless ukulele and nudged Billy hard in the ribs. “This should be good,” he chuckled. “I'll bet a chimp's got better timing.”

Billy moved slightly out of the way of the flailing, sharp-pointed, painful elbows.

“A chimp!!” Thornton was outraged. “My good man, I have been performing on stage and film for close to 50 years!”

“I thought you were only 50,” tittered Mickey.

Thornton's mouth clammed shut. Then he stuttered a reply. “I... I er. I started at an early age,” was all he could muster.

“Pity you didn't finish at an early age,” countered Billy.

Thornton was flustered. His face became apoplectic red. “Oh shut up,” he finally said. “Shut up, you, you dishevelled pimple.” He closed in on Billy and spat out the words. Billy didn't move a muscle.

“Bloody old queen,” he said, calmly.

Thornton screwed up the piece of paper again and shouted with frustration. “That is it,” he screamed. “I am through. I will not work with these two ...” He paused for effect and then delivered the word with accentuated venom. “... Buskers!”

“Buskers!” Billy was on his feet. “I make a million dollars every time the bloody clock ticks. Don't call me a bloody busker.”

Mickey laughed gleefully. He was enjoying the discomfort of the other two men. At least he was until Billy turned on him.

“What are you laughing at you old turd,” he yelled.

“Hey don't pick on me,” said Mickey. “It's him calling you names, not me.”

Lucy broke up the argument. “Gentlemen...” The word was like quicksand, soft and dangerous. The two men turned in the direction of the voice.

Lucy was standing, frowning and annoyed.

“Sorry.” The apology slipped, unasked from Billy's lips.

“Yes.” Lucy's word was ice cold. Billy sat subdued. “Now, Mr Thornton,” said Lucy. “Will you please continue the reading? It is vital that you finish it.”

Thornton didn't think. “I will not,” he said. There was an instant of silence, a silence overlain with silently rumbling thunder.

It was Angela's voice, dripping treacle, which broke the silence. “Remember the play, Mr Thornton, remember the role.”

Thornton stopped. “How ...?” No-one knew that he knew about Brunio. Or did they? The spy cameras! That was it. That's how they knew. Damn them, they knew everything. Angela was smiling sweetly. Diana looked apprehensive and Lucy stared balefully at him.

Thornton took a deep breath and recovered his poise. “Very well then,” he said. “I will read the words. I will read them as they have never been read before. They will take on new meaning. They will glow with vibrancy and shine with unaccustomed brilliance.” He held out his hand and, with hardly a hesitation, Lucy again picked up the paper and magically smoothed it out.

It looked like it had been ironed, thought Mickey.

“Now, where was I?”

Mickey giggled. “On your way to the theatre, mate,” he said.

“Keep these cretins under control,” snarled Thornton.

“Mickey?” Just a simple word of reproof from Diana was enough. Mickey sat, expressionless but with suppressed amusement lying behind his eyes.

Thornton began again, even more dramatically. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the theatre tonight. An Irishman stopped me at the stage door and asked me to change a six dollar note.” He stopped, thinking. “There's no such thing,” he said.

Mickey chuckled. “Read on Macduff,” he said.

Thornton sighed and squinted at the script again. The words were bleary and he was not going to use his glasses for anybody. “Yes, a six dollar note,” Thornton intoned. “I took it, but I'm no fool. I gave him two threes in exchange.”

The words meant nothing to him, but he heard a huge ripple of laughter coming from somewhere. He glanced up from his script and suddenly felt naked. It he was having an insecurity dream, for there in the auditorium was a full house.

The patrons wore dinner jackets, tiaras, Chanel, Dior, and Balenciaga. It was a first night audience, and all he had was a page full of drivel. He gulped, ran his tongue round dried lips and tried again.

“Talking of Irishmen, did you hear about the one from the IRA? He was told to blow up a bus and he burnt his lips on the exhaust pipe.”

There was an uproarious mass guffaw from the audience of toffs. Thornton suddenly felt the adrenaline flow. The years dropped away. It was a huge audience, a Royal Command Performance? He glanced upwards and saw the royal box. There was someone in there. Her Majesty, and His Royal Highness, dressed in a white tuxedo. My God! It had been so long. He glanced down at the paper and could see every word. See them? He knew them!

He laughed hugely and threw the paper away. He stood, hands on hips staring at the audience. “So,” he projected, “how do you confuse and Irishman?” There was an expectant silence. He paused just for the right amount of time it seemed. Then he came in with the punch line. “You give him two spades and ask him to take his pick.”

The laugher rattled the chandelier in the ceiling.

Mickey and Billy sat stunned at the performance in front of them. The master actor was stuttering and stumbling over simple words. Stopping, stumbling, yet staring with triumph into the darkness. Every so often he stopped, bowed his head, then spread out his arms in thanks. His eyes gleamed as he launched on to the next set of jokes.

“You'd think he had an audience,” said Mickey, remembering his own nightmare.

“Yeah.” Billy remembered too.

“And you'd think they like him,” said Mickey.

“Yeah.”

“But God, he's awful.”

“Pathetic.”

“Gentlemen.” Reproof from Diana brought silence, but for Thornton's disjointed rambling.

But the actor was having the time of his life. His audience was crying with laughter at his jokes and his timing was perfect. He had to wait longer and longer for the laughter and the applause to stop. He half turned away from the audience. “Eat your heart out Mr Finnegan,” he muttered.

“I say, any of you play golf? “ He shaded his eyes and pretended to look at the audience, even though all he could see was the glint of the stage lights on diamonds. “I'd say so; none of you look as if you've done a day's work in your life? What are you all then, lawyers?” The laughter soared to new heights. “Did I tell you about the man I played with yesterday? He had a little dog and very time he made a good shot the dog sat on its hind legs and clapped its paws together.

“I said, ‘that's clever.' And my opponent said, ‘he does that every time I make a good shot'. ‘What does he do when you make a bad shot?' I asked. ‘He does somersaults', replied my opponent. How many?' I asked. ‘Depends on how hard I kick him” said my opponent. The laughter soared and tears flowed. Even Thornton laughed. “That was funny,” he chuckled. The comment was aimed at the people he knew were still on stage behind him.

And he forged on, the more jokes he told, the more the laughter. He was feeling invincible. He had power again. Then movement caught his eye from the royal box. He glanced up. They were leaving! They couldn't be. Then, his panic-pounding heart slowed. It wasn't HM. It was no Duke in a white tuxedo. It was the silly little man who had accosted him in the toilet. Mr Pink face.

He stood at the front of the box. He was crying and shaking his head sadly.

Thornton pointed angrily at him. “You're a buffoon,” he shouted. “Go home, if you don't understand the act.”

The audience applauded and began to throw things at the box; programs, oranges, chocolates. The little man wiped his eyes, oblivious of the assault and slowly walked away into the shadows. Thornton turned his attention back to his audience. “Carrying right along,” he crooned, “I'd like to thank you all for being a wonderful audience and I'd like to finish with a little song that baby Dracula used to sing to his mummy,
Fangs for the mammary
. Thank you all, and goodnight.”

He stood bathing in the rapturous applause and slowly the lights came up and he watched his audience file out. Dogs in dinner suits, goats in gossamer silk, ducks in diamonds. They were animals, foul animals with demon faces and cloven hooves protruding from exquisitely cut cloth. There were animals, unheard off, faces to inspire fear or the result of genetic experiments gone wrong; foulness of every kind. They were suppurating, slavering, grinning to show blood-stained teeth. Their breath combined like a collective sewer. Thornton stepped back, stumbled, and almost fell. The audience laughed again. They howled with laughter, bayed with laugher. The laughter was there, but it was a Hellish howl, laughter from the pit.

“Bravo,” was the howl. It was taken up. The creatures from the pit clapped their hooves, paws, stumps, talons. Thornton bowed his head again in acknowledgement. They owned him now. Just as all audiences owned a performer.

Slowly the lights faded and darkness resumed the auditorium. There was just the echo of the ‘bravo'. Slowly the actor realised it was coming from behind him. He turned and saw a delighted Joshua Lucy applauding. The words were coming from an excited Diana. Angela was hugging herself in glee.

“Masterful,” said Lucy. He stood and took Thornton by the hand. Thornton felt heat, power. He withdrew his hand quickly.

“That has to be worst routine I've ever seen,” protested Mickey.

Billy was also baffled. “He was so bad he made this old bastard sound good.” He jerked his head in Mickey's direction.

“Watch it,” warned the comic.

They watched in wonder as the women and Joshua Lucy fussed around Thornton. The actor revelled in the attention. He knew he had triumphed in that strange place, with those strange words. Brunio was his! But his euphoria was crushed when Lucy disentangled himself and addressed all three auditionees.

“Thank you for your co-operation gentleman,” he said. “But the ladies and I have a few things to discuss before we can give you our final word on the casting, so if you wouldn't mind taking another short break in the Green Room ...”

“I could do with another cup of tea,” said Mickey. He stood. Billy followed suit. “We've been here for hours; another couple of minutes won't hurt. I wonder if there any of those oysters left.”

Thornton drew himself to his full height. “But we've been for an eternity already,” he protested. “What more is there to know?”

Diana smiled her most dangerous smile. “Come now Mr Thornton, hardly an eternity. Would you mind? It's almost time to see the script.”

Thornton wavered, and then decided. “Oh, very well,” and he marched into the dankness of the wings. Mickey and Billy followed him. They shivered. They had forgotten the cold. They passed Lucy's room. They'd forgotten the smell, too.