The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (37 page)

“Wait,” said Carlton, “someone’s coming.”

They flattened themselves against the wall as footsteps approached.

“Shit,” said Alex.

“I’ll take him,” said Carlton.

They tensed. A short figure in spangly tights turned the corner sharply and almost fell over them.

“Hello,” said Keith, startled. “What have we here?”

He looked at the three of them frozen guiltily. Two comedians and a Bowie in drag.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess. You’re doing
tableau vi-vant
and your subject is
The Wizard of Oz
.”

“Good try,” said Alex, the first to recover from the shock, “but this is
The Wizard of Id
. Dorothy and the Tin Man have mated to produce a metal transvestite who likes cross-dressing. The scarecrow and I are running away together to open a Montessori school for the alternatively gifted and what the fuck are
you
doing here?”

“Checking my supplies as ordered,” said Keith. “It’s taken me a while. They have some ferocious lager on this ship.”

“What’s around there?”

“Just dressing rooms. Up those stairs is the stage door.”

“Anybody up there?”

“Stage doorman. But they’re beefing up security. Something’s happened.”

“What?”

“Dunno but everyone’s going crazy up there. Stopping you, searching you. Anyway I got my backstage pass.” He held up a tiny flamethrower.

“Must fly,” said Keith. “Nice to see you all looking so guilty. Bye, sweetie,” and he blew Carlton a kiss. “Love the costume. Don’t change a thing.”

Man appoints, and God disappoints.

—
Miguel De Cervantes

“How’s Brenda?”

“Bad.”

“She gonna pull through?”

“They’re not sure.”

Rogers winced. They had been so close to catching the boy. Who could possibly have foreseen the arrival of Brenda?

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Dunphy. “These things happen. Chaos Theory.”

“They took out their own guy. Who are these people?”

“They’re deadly fucking serious, that’s for sure.”

“Part of the plan?”

“No way. Pure fuck-up,” said Dunphy “No one could possibly predict Brenda was gonna show up like that.”

They were standing underneath the cold portico swilling coffee. The sandstone columns every few yards, like an Egyptian temple, had yards of yellow tape around them, holding back the crowd. Kyle came hurrying across towards them.

“People are saying Brenda’s dead. They are coming to pay their last respects.”

He glanced back towards the park. Several people already held candles. More pushed forward, searching for the spot where she had fallen. They held handkerchiefs expectantly, looking for blood spots.

“Jesus,” said Rogers. “Put the rain on.”

“Can’t do that, pal,” said Dunphy.

“They’re ghouls,” said Rogers.

“They’re destroying evidence,” said Kyle.

“Who needs evidence? We have him clear on tape shooting her. Look.”

They watched the red-haired boy panic as the camera lights lit him up and all eyes turned towards him.

“Must have been a terrifying moment for him,” said Dunphy. “Suddenly his invisibility melted away.”

They saw the short flame from the weapon. Brenda’s look of surprise as she collapsed.

Kyle said, “Oh, there’s a woman wants to see you. Urgent, she’s saying.”

“Tell her to wait.”

“I’d see her if I were you,” said Dunphy, staring over his shoulder. “It’s Katy Wallace.”

“Let her through,” said Rogers.

A commotion at the edge of the crowd as she pushed through. The people stared in fascination at the crime scene, as if they were spectators at a play. A small emergency vehicle had been set aside as a temporary command post. Rogers nodded her inside. He could smell her perfume as she passed.

“Oh boy,” said Dunphy approvingly.

“Want to listen in?” asked Rogers.

“You bet,” said Dunphy.

He climbed up into the trailer. Katy was already seated. She waited till they’d closed the door.

“Have you seen my father?” She looked at them fiercely, as if expecting an argument.

“Who?” said Rogers.

“My father is missing.”

“Look, lady,” said Rogers, spreading his hands, “there are a lot of missing people on this ship. We don’t have time to go chasing around after people’s relatives.”

“Why don’t you try the Bodyslogs?” asked Dunphy reasonably.

“The Bodyslogs can find no trace of him,” she said. “He’s a Silesian.” As if this explained anything.

“Aha,” said Rogers, not understanding.

A security man came in, glanced curiously at Katy, and handed Rogers a note. Rogers read it and looked up sharply.

“You just tried to see Emil Keppler?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t see me.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t see me.”

“No, why did you want to see him?”

“He’s…” she looked at him, wondering how much he knew. “I wanted to ask him to help find my father.”

“And he wouldn’t?”

“Wouldn’t even let me in.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No. Why?” she asked, puzzled.

“He’s under house arrest.”

“Emil?” She looked stunned.

“What were you doing at the Rialto?” asked Dunphy.

“Who’re you?” she said.

“Answer the question,” said Rogers.

“I’m here to ask
you
questions.”

“Not anymore,” said Rogers. “Tell us why you went to the Rialto.”

“I was meeting my father.”

He exchanged a glance with Dunphy. Dunphy was feigning indifference.

“What’s his name then, this father?” asked Rogers.

She thought for a moment. “His real name, or his code name?”

Rogers sat forward, suddenly tense. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. His
code name
.

“Everything you know.”

“His name is Walewski,” she said, “Alexander Walewski. Also known as Comus.”

Dunphy whistled. “Comus,” he said. “You’re sure it’s Comus?”

“Quite sure,” she said. “He’s my father.”

“Can you believe that?”

“I suppose she’s telling the truth?”

“Why lie?”

They looked at her through the window, waiting anxiously outside the trailer.

“So what do we do?” said Kyle.

“Find him before they do,” said Dunphy. “Unless they already have him.”

“Come on, let’s not get paranoid. He’s an old man. He wandered off. Got lost. Fuck-up.”

“Why not conspiracy?” said Dunphy. “They can’t be too happy with his role in this.”

“You think they snatched him?”

“Wouldn’t you? Leaving a geriatric loose in the middle of an operation. Running around blabbing. Visiting relatives. No, things don’t look so good for old pal Comus.”

“You think so?”

“Look what they did to the redhead.”

They gazed out of the window. The Bodyslogs were removing the body.

“So who killed Sammy Weiss?” asked Rogers.

“I think the watchers killed her,” said Dunphy. “When they found Katy visiting Comus, they panicked. Was it a trap? Were they being double-crossed? They’ve got a lot at stake here.”

“Go on,” said Rogers.

“Keppler represents their arms. They have to protect him. They need him safe until he can deliver. When Sammy copied the Weiss file to Carlton and Carlton was following Katy, they had nightmares. None of them could conceive of the real reason for Comus’s visit. Innocent motives don’t help in a paranoid world.”

“So they killed her?”

“The watchers killed her. To protect Keppler.”

“It’s a theory,” said Rogers. “Let’s go test it.”

There was a shout outside.

“They’ve found another one.”

“What?”

“Another body in the grass out there.”

Dunphy and Rogers looked at each other.

“Could be Daddy,” said Dunphy. “Better stop her.”

But they were too late. Katy was already running across the grass. A group of detectives were holding people back. Harsh lights picked out something huddled under a rough blanket. She reached the cops, but they wouldn’t let her through. By the time Rogers caught up with her, she was arguing hysterically with them.

“That’s okay,” said Rogers. “Let her look.”

She glanced at him, her pale face frightened but determined.

The uniformed men hovering over the body stood up and pulled back the grey blanket. She stared down.

“That’s not him,” she said.

Charles Jay Brown had embarked on the longest voyage.

Comedy is tragedy that happens to other people.

—
Angela Carter

In the distance they could hear the sound of an orchestra tuning up. It was getting close to show time. Chorus girls in feathers and thongs strode by in their half-naked splendor. Alex stopped to stare, but Lewis shoved him on through the backstage maze towards the exit.

“We gotta get outta here.”

“Hey, I was just looking.”

As they passed the Wardrobe Department, they heard a familiar voice.

“Moan, moan, moan. Night and day. That’s all they ever did. Until I was sick to death of ’em. So I told them. That’s enough for me. I’m out of here. I hear the call of the audience. The lure of the footlights. The smell of the greasepaint. I’m going back to the theater!”

It was their Washing Machine. Mrs. Greenaway sat in splendor among the dressbots, happily kvetching while they listened spellbound, reveling in her.

“‘You’re not cooping me up any longer,’ I said. The caged bird must fly. It is a life of show business for me.’”

“You said that to your humans?”

“I told ’em straight. I’m sick of all this comedy malarkey. They think they’re so funny with their sex dolls and their trollops.”

“How dare she say that?” said Alex, outraged.

“Oh, let’s just leave her. She’ll be happy here,” said Lewis.

“That’s right,” said Alex. “We don’t need her now Carlton likes dressing up as a bedbot.”

Carlton put his nose in the air and bore their taunts nobly. They would soon see what he was made of.

“Hey, you.”

“Me?” said Alex.

“Yes, you.”

A large stage doorman was looking at them suspiciously.

“Come here.”

“Who, me?” said Alex with great confidence.

“Yes, you. Who are you?”

“Muscroft and Ashby,” said Lewis. “We’re on the bill.”

“You were removed,” said the doorman.

“Well, we’ve been put back again,” said Alex.

“But you have no dressing room.”

“That’s okay, we’re dressed. See.” He indicated Carlton.

“That robot’s in drag,” said the doorman.

“Comedy,” said Alex. “That’s what we do.”

“No, no, no,” said the doorman. “You’ve got to have a proper dressing room. You can’t be on a show and have no dressing room, that won’t do at all.”

Fortunately the doorman was distracted by the arrival of a large party of men at the stage door behind him. He turned to face the new problem.

“And who may I ask are you lot?”

“Visitors. We have backstage passes.”

“These are to see Brenda Woolley.”

“Yes.”

“She’s not here.”

“Nevertheless these are passes.”

“These are passes to see her, and I’ve told you she’s not here.”

“Quickly, in here,” said Lewis, shoving Alex and Carlton through a doorway. He slammed the door shut and flipped on the light. They looked in amazement. A plush pink and gold room of utter magnificence greeted their eyes. It was the Number 1 dressing room.

“Wow,” said Alex. “Gay heaven.”

Lewis turned and looked back through the tiny spyhole.

“We can’t be in here,” said Carlton in a shocked voice. “This is Brenda Woolley’s dressing room.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to hear,” said Lewis, his eye pressed to the hole. He couldn’t quite make out what was going on. There seemed to be some kind of altercation by the stage door. Who were all these men? Surely they were hardly Brenda Woolley fans? A short dark-haired man was arguing forcefully with the doorman.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll just have to come back later.”

“Well, that won’t be possible, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t admit you. Security has been tightened since the shooting, and it’s more than my job’s worth to let you in.”

“You’re quite right,” said the short man. “It is more than your job’s worth.”

Lewis turned back to watch Alex preening in front of Brenda Woolley’s elaborate gilded makeup mirror. It looked like an altarpiece.

“Uhm, sweetheart, lay it on with a trowel,” said Alex, lifting his hair off his face.

“Shh,” said Lewis. “They’ll hear us.”

“Soundproofed,” said Carlton. “But I really don’t think we should be in here.”

When Lewis turned back, there was no sign of the doorman, but fifteen large men were clattering down the corridor. He thought for a second they were coming straight for Brenda Woolley’s dressing room, but they paused outside while the dark-haired man pointed half of them towards an elevator that said PRIVATE CONTROL ROOM ONLY.

“Who on earth are they?” said Lewis. “A male choir?” They seemed too beefy even for a Welsh choir. The rest of the party ran down the stairs. There was a new man on the door now, in a Security jacket that seemed too short for him.

“I don’t like this,” said Lewis. “There’s something weird going on.”

“Ooh, look,” said Alex, “Brenda’s wardrobe.” He had opened a large mirrored sliding closet to reveal row upon row of dresses hanging neatly in plastic wrappers.

“The mother lode,” he said. “Frock city. C’mon, Carlton, slip into one of these, I beg you. Away with the dowdy, and on with the glam.”

Carlton was outraged. “Do please stop it. It’s sacrilege,” he said.

“Oh, loosen up, Carlton,” said Alex, “this is a drag queen’s dream.”

He was filled with manic energy as he opened another closet packed with different wigs of all colors and styles mounted on lifelike wig blocks.

“And this is where Brenda keeps her heads,” said Alex. “Ooh, honey, you give great heads.”

“Quit messing around,” said Lewis, “we’re in deep doo-doo here.”