Slowly Gerald began to live as his character, and he began to lose himself in the process. Only every now and then would he realise what he was doing, he would catch sight of his reflection in a mirrored surface and be snapped back into who he really was. These were fleeting moments in which he would feel smug and superior, and he could already see the accolades at the end of his deep dark tunnel. He knew that he could not allow himself to be drawn out of his role, for this would be the making of him and the crowning achievement of his professional life. He knew that in these moments he was achieving absolute emersion and a reality to his performance that would be unrivalled throughout his industry. He could remember little about the scenes, just flashes of screams, and the sweet odour of the corn syrup fake blood. Wherever his unknown director was getting his inspiration from, it was a dark and scary place indeed.
Today was to be the last of his scenes and Gerald felt a strange mixture of relief and regret at the prospect. He waited, as had become his ritual, in a hard backed kitchen chair facing the front door, often for hours on end. His fear would grow that the envelope wouldn’t appear, and his fear also grew in case it did. The process had been far more grueling on him than he had ever thought possible, and the physical transformation had left him gaunt and tired. His dreams were filled with terror and blood with an echoing scream soundtrack.
After two painful days of waiting the envelope finally plopped through his door, and his heart skipped a beat when it landed with an ominous thump. He sat and stared at the teasing brown package for some time. Eventually he stood on shaky legs and walked towards his destiny.
He left his apartment later that evening in a drunken haze. He had consumed no alcoholic beverages for the duration of the shoot, but he was intoxicated just the same. The suit of the no named man was a heavy burden to wear; the clothes seemed to seep into his very pores as the new personality invaded. He found that there was only a gossamer thin layer between them now. He felt bitter anger now all the time; he could smell their thoughts towards him as he walked through the world. He caught their mocking glances and could feel their fear. People now avoided him on the street; they crossed the road to remove themselves from his path. Deep down he knew that he was dangerously ill-prepared for this venture. He had thought himself more than capable of carrying out the process, but he now knew that his arrogance could only carry him so far. But he was nothing if not committed. He had one more night to perform; one more scene to get through, one more nightmare to survive before it all became worthwhile.
He reached the supermarket location; the night was cold and damp and fitted his mood perfectly. Today’s shooting schedule package had contained the details of the filming and a serrated vicious looking knife. The envelope explained that the “victim” actor would be in the freezer section of the supermarket. He was to storm up to the actor and stab him repeatedly in the chest with the enclosed knife. The actor would be wearing a chest protector that was filled with blood packets and the effect would be messy and shocking. After the murder scene he was to flee the premises as quickly as possible, as if he was detained and arrested now then the weeks would all have been for nothing. A very public arrest would lead to the film being revealed and the effect would be ruined.
After the supermarket he was to relocate to a warehouse a few miles away where there would be the wrap party to end all wrap parties. He was also hoping to get to view the fruits of his labors and maybe get to meet his illusive director.
As tired as he was, he desperately wanted to sit in a cinema with an audience viewing his transformation for the first time. He wanted to hear those shocks and gasps. He wanted to feel their revulsion and terror and see them fleeing up the aisles. He wanted to witness the hordes come to see the rom-com darling shatter their worlds in a bloody blaze of glory. In truth he was just keen to get the last night over with; his head seemed to ache all the time now. He wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t eating, and he knew that he did not have much left in the tank. He was running on fumes.
He steeled himself as he entered the supermarket, and the bright neon lighting spiked into his brain spitefully. The building was large and busy, and tired mother’s hustled their unruly litters as tiny hands were forever grabbing at colorful packaging.
Gerald walked through the aisles of merriment and seduction; his head throbbed painfully and he just wanted this to all be over quickly. He kept the image of that golden statue in front of him; the inevitable confirmation of his sacrifice that was surely on the horizon. He would bask in the adulation and it would all have been worthwhile, as he would try to explain to empty headed talk show hosts. He would paddle in the pools of pop culture, but his head would be firmly raised above the parapet.
He reached the freezer aisle. The package had told him that the actor would be the same man from his very first scene in the pub a couple of weeks earlier. Gerald had cringed at the casting, as the actor in question had not been of a suitable standard as far as Gerald was concerned.
He spotted the actor ahead of him. The man was perusing the freezers; his concentration seemed appropriate, and his manner was relaxed and natural. Gerald wondered if he had underestimated the actor’s abilities after all. Perhaps this new style of filming had perhaps thrown the man at first.
He stormed towards the actor, his blood pumping and his heart pounding hard. The man turned towards him with a more than credible look of surprise on his face and the actor went up another notch in Gerald’s estimation. He drew the wicked blade from his jacket and the man visibly paled before him; his face contorted with horror and panic.
“Hey, hold on a minute man,” the actor stammered. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled loudly, his voice rising to an almost comically high pitch.
Gerald knew that the whole scene depended on his clean getaway and the man’s yells were already attracting attention. He swung the blade, his arm full of adrenaline infused power. Despite his anger racing he still took careful aim to land the knife into the actor’s hidden protective vest. The response was instant and bloody, the squibs exploded a crimson gush into the air and the man sank instantly to his knees. Gerald landed on the actor’s chest and drove the evil looking blade into his chest for the scripted three more times. The actor’s death scene was marvelous and Gerald could only hope that the hidden cameras were getting sufficient close-ups. For once Gerald felt an uncharacteristic urge to convey his admiration to the actor for his performance. But his thought was interrupted by a shattering scream of a female shopper who had wandered into the blood ridden aisle.
He quickly leapt to his feet. His shoes were sticky underfoot from the fake blood and he left red fading boot prints in his wake as he turned and ran for the exit. Several more shoppers had joined the party; some were screaming for help, some were screaming for the police and some were just screaming. Gerald knew that his complete disintegration into his character was more than convincing, as even the bravest of witnesses seemed unwilling to stop him as he ran. A security guard suddenly emerged in front of him as he reached the supermarket exit. Gerald dipped his shoulder and charged into the minimum wage wannabe and he sent the man flying and was outside free and clear.
He ran quickly, desperately trying to remember the directions to the warehouse where the crew would all be waiting for him. Heads whipped around as he ran and he relished the frightened stares that he had earned. The sound of police and ambulance sirens from the store behind him warmed his heart. The night splitting wails were a standing ovation of noise and a cacophony of applause to his performance.
He eventually reached the industrial estate that was his destination. For one terrible moment he thought that he must have forgotten his directions and he stopped abruptly. He had left most of the occupied shops behind by now and he found himself surrounded only by darkened buildings. He was sure that the warehouse was around here somewhere, but he could see no vehicles, no lights or people. His heart thudded painfully against his ribcage; his breath was short due to his evening’s exertions. He looked down at his hands in the gloomy light. The dried fake blood suddenly felt different; the actor’s performance in the supermarket suddenly felt too real. He tried to centre his mind but it was spinning dangerously out of control. His skin crawled and fear stole up his spine with spiteful fingers. A fresh burst of police sirens sounded out in the night. They seemed closer than before and he ran to the closest building. He washed the obvious blood from his hands under a leaking gutter. The water was icy cold and he scrubbed his skin raw. He buttoned his coat tightly around himself to cover the dark splattering on his shirt.
He pulled on the large wooden double doors praying they would open and offer him sanctuary while he tried to think. The doors gave way with a squeak that seemed monstrously loud in the silence and he cringed for the attention that they might attract. He slipped inside the warehouse, his mind reeling with the terrible possibilities of his actions.
The black interior suddenly exploded into light and life.
“SURPRISE!” A unison shout bellowed out loudly.
Gerald sank to his knees before the crowd and he had little senses left to make any sense out of what he was looking at. His whole body seemed to shake violently and his vision trembled worryingly. Before him were many faces he recognised. Most of them belonged to the bridges that he had burnt so determinedly before he had embarked on his crusade.
“Oh, we got you Gerry,” the voice of his former agent sang out happily, “Man did we ever get you!”
“Have you got any idea of just how much footage we have of you?” the shrill sound of one of his former female co-stars chimed out.
“I…,I don’t understand,” Gerald whispered.
“You my boy, have just been brought back to earth with the biggest bump ever seen,” his manager Thomas said, walking forward out of the delirious crowd. “Have you any idea just how many people you have pissed off over the years?”
“What?” Gerald said, uncomprehending.
“It was all a set-up. After you suddenly found the religion of acting, you pompous little prat and fired everyone, I thought that you needed to be taught a little lesson. I sent you the package about the script, about the guerrilla style filming. I knew you would be so arrogant that you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“But all the stuff I’ve been doing…” Gerald trailed of thinking of the scenes that he had been performing, and he shuddered with the humiliation. “You weren’t really filming it?” He said hopefully.
“Oh no sonny, we’ve filmed it all. You charging around in the buff, your mad rants to the public, we filmed all of it,” Thomas beamed gleefully.
Gerald sank to his knees. His thoughts were full of relief and anger; two minutes ago he was suddenly terrified that he had really killed someone and lost his mind. Now however he was ruined and humiliated before those he had treated with contempt and derision for more years than he could remember. He scanned the gathering’s faces and winced as the thoughts of his behavior towards them came flooding back.
The door suddenly banged open behind the crowd. From his kneeling position he stood and looked over shoulders as a man entered.
“Johnny!” Thomas shouted happily to the newcomer, “You missed it, Gerald got here on time, why weren’t you right behind him? Didn’t you follow him back from the park?”
“Not likely, the bugger didn’t show up,” Johnny snapped, “I was waiting there for over an hour.”
“Hah, I knew you would chicken out of the last scene,” Thomas said to Gerald mockingly.
“What are you talking about?” Gerald said tiredly, “I went to the supermarket, no doubt made an ass out of myself.”
“Supermarket? What are you talking about?” Thomas said bemused, “The last scene was at the park. I wrote it and sent it to you. What did you do at the supermarket?”
Gerald’s heart sank and his legs gave way as the sirens reached the warehouse outside. Tires screeched and gravel churned. Car doors echoed in the night as they were slammed shut and heavy footed policemen began pounding on the double doors.
17.
BLACKWATER HEIGHTS
“Wait a minute,” Martin said to Jimmy back in the safety of the deserted corridor again. “What are you telling me? Was there a movie or was it all a prank?”
“Well as near as the police can figure it, Gerald was set up on a practical joke by his manager, who apparently had no shortage of willing helpers. The idea being that they would see just how far they could push Gerald, whilst filming it all for their amusement. The thing is that his manager, Thomas, swears blind that he wrote a final scene for the park, but Gerald says that he never got that envelope. He got one directing him to the supermarket where it happens that the actor from the first shoot usually shops on that particular night.”
“So someone replaced the shooting schedule?”
“It would appear so. Poor old Gerald goes barreling into the supermarket and stabs a man to death in plain view of about a dozen witnesses.”
“Who replaced the scripts and why? Martin asked incredulously.
“They never found out. Maybe someone wanted a bloodier revenge against Gerald than simple humiliation. Or maybe someone wanted the actor in the supermarket dead; the police never managed to figure it out.”
“Jesus, so Gerald Dayton has got to deal with a murder on his conscience.”
“Well, once the judge heard all about the prank and saw the state that Gerald was in, he was sent here instead of prison.”
Martin looked around the depths of the hospital and wondered if Gerald was lucky or not.
“So what about the legends?” He asked.
“Sorry?” Jimmy looked up quizzically.
“Earlier you said something about the legends of this place.”
“Oh, just the stuff of fertile minds I suppose. It was said old Horace Whisker, during his later days, developed an interest in the occult. Supposedly his library was considered to contain one of the most comprehensive collections of rare literature on the subject.”
“And?” Martin prompted as Jimmy’s mind had seemed to wander again.
“Um, yes, it was said that Horace dreamt of life everlasting. I’m guessing that the man was just too damn arrogant to ever consider that death would one day come for him, as though he was above such earthly constraints.”
“How does that relate to the Blackwater Heights?”
“Well some of the old folks from the village tell tales of sacrifice and black magic and all of that mumbo jumbo going on up here after Emily took their son and fled.”
“Brave girl,” Martin said with admiration.
“Depends on how you look at it. You could say that she was a deceitful whore who reneged on her sacred vows to love, honour and obey. Just skulked off into the night taking Horace’s only son and heir, the ultimate betrayal,” Jimmy spat.
“That’s one way of looking at it I guess,” Martin said dubiously.
“But only one way,” Jimmy said all smiles again.
“So what did he do up here when he was all alone?”
“Nobody knows for sure, all I can say is that the man poured such heart and soul into building this place that perhaps he was connected to it in ways that we can’t even begin to comprehend.”
“How?” Martin asked.
“No time for that young sir, we’ve got people to see and tales to tell,” Jimmy said as he opened door number 9.