Bite The Wax Tadpole (23 page)

“Oh, apart from one of the actors mutilating himself and the director having a coronary it’s all going gangbusters. Listen, are you all right? Really all right?”

“Fine, fine, fine. I was just wondering if there was any chance that you’d change your mind, that’s all. About me. About coming to Greece.”

Out of the corner of his eye Rob could see Bruce backing away from Tony with long, deliberate strides.

“Not really, no. I mean, if Alison wasn’t...”

“Pregnant.”

“That’s the word. Then maybe, possibly...”

Rob watched idly as Bruce raised a gun and pulled the trigger. The explosion was quite startlingly large. Blood, or what is known in the trade as Kensington Gore, spurted out of Tony’s chest and he called out “Mother of Mercy, is the end of Rico?” before sinking to his knees.

“What was that?”, cried the startled Niobe.

“Just an actor getting shot, nothing to worry about.”

“So, you’re definitely spurning me then?”

“Spurning you? I wouldn’t say spurning...” Well, let’s face it, who would these days?

“Very well. I accept your spurning. But I want you to know that my days with you were the finest days of my life. Remember those times when the sun sank down to rest beside the margins of the bay, the fragrant odours of the lemon trees; and then, by night, on the terrace we gazed at the stars and made plans for the future. Yes, there are certain places on earth which naturally bring forth happiness as though it were a plant native to the soil which could not thrive elsewhere.”

“Are you talking about the night we spent at the Mudgee Writers’ Festival?”

“But now life is as cold as an attic with a window looking to the north and ennui, like a spider, is silently spinning its shadowy web into every cranny of my heart.”

Her pause may have been for dramatic effect but Rob decided to fill it.

“Have you thought about, you know, seeing a doctor? There are these tablets these days...”

“No, no doctors!”, she screamed. “If they don’t cripple you, they bore you to death. Adieu, mon amour, adieu.”

The call ended abruptly; Rob looked at the phone as though it were the mystery object in an antiques quiz show. What on earth was all that about lemon trees and attic windows? The poor girl was clearly unhinged and he fervently hoped that her adieu was really goodbye.

In the kitchen of her flat, Niobe plugged the stopper into the top of the blue jar which was now full of white crystals. Deep in her soul, the very fibre of her being, she knew that she and Rob were fated to be together. Or, if not together, to be fatally but romantically parted. And fate was going to bring them together or render them apart that very night. At the special time of 7.30.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Nev Beale rattled the loose change in his trouser pockets as he stared out of the window at the helicopter taking off. It hovered briefly before rising swiftly and heading off towards the coast. Leaving his shrapnel alone, Nev began to scratch his arms. He’d be bloody glad when this Dutch deal was done and dusted and that was a fact. Ruud and Johann were not the sort of people he ever wanted to do business with again. Oh, they seemed friendly enough but since he’d started negotiations with them he’d done a bit of digging and there was blood on the carpet with these blokes when things didn’t go their way. Real blood. Christ, what was he thinking of? No, after tonight he’d ever have anything to do with Holland again and that included eating Edam, which he was partial to, or listening to Andre Rieu, who he found quite soothing, or... or... he couldn’t think of anything else Dutch except putting your finger into a dyke and that possibility seemed extremely remote however you interpreted the word.

The gardener, turning away from the bush he was pruning and making a mobile phone call, didn’t swim at all into Nev’s ken. Why would it? Why indeed?

He wrenched open the bar fridge and snapped open a Red Bull. There was something else happening tonight... what was it?... oh, yeah, the “Rickety Street” live episode. He took a long swig. Good luck to them. They’d need it. Who Goes Next? They bloody well do.

As the hands of the clock outside the “Rickety Street” set clunked towards 7 pm, the cast, crew and extras milled about like runners before the City to Surf. There were about 79, 950 less of them but they still went through similar pre-event routines: stretching, yawning, keeping up their fluids, psyching themselves up, calming themselves down, nipping off to the dunny every five minutes to jog up and down at the end of a long queue.

Rosanna looked to be relaxing with a copy of “Woman’s Weekly” but her line of sight was over the top of the magazine to where Karl stood drinking from a bottle of mineral water and chatting to a young female extra. Hah! If he thought she’d be warming his toes tonight then he had another think coming if she, Rosanna, had anything to do with it. God, he was insufferable. When she’d first met him she’d disliked him so much she thought that it was the sort of loathing that was bound to turn into the passionate longing that kept Hollywood romcom writers in constant employment. Well, she’d certainly got that one wrong.

Karl put down his drink, gave Little Miss Nubile Groupie a smile and headed off towards the gents. Rosanna wandered casually over to where the girl, who was presumably playing some sort of drunken bimbo, stood. In her hand, concealed behind the magazine, she carried a bottle of “L’eau des Marais”. Typical of the stuck up little toad to drink ridiculously expensive French mineral water while everyone else drank the studio supplied tea, coffee or tap. But it was an affectation which had given Rosanna the idea which she was now putting into practice. No-one took any notice of her as she switched Karl’s bottle for the one she had prepared earlier, taking off the top and pouring some into a nearby plastic cup so that the levels matched. Grinning, she walked off. She was going to enjoy the live show.

Karl, meanwhile, crept into Wardrobe. He’d kept an eye on Rosanna while ostensibly chatting up one of the extras and when he was sure she was preoccupied he’d slipped off to put his plan into action. He ran his hands along the rack of costumes lined up for quick changes between acts one and two. There weren’t many so he had no difficulty in quickly finding the dress Rosanna would change into. From out of his pocket he took a plastic container and stealthily sprinkled the powdery contents inside the back of the dress. Stuck up little cow. Jeez, he was going to enjoy this live episode.

Angus, in his costume as Police Sergeant Black, exited the gents and saw Phyllida, in her Police Constable’s uniform, standing in the doorway twixt corridor and set. Grinning, and with cat-like tread, he came up behind her, put his arms round her, cupped her breasts and said, in a comic voice, “Hello, darling”.

Her response, much to his surprise, was to swing round and plant a straight right into his nose. There was a crack as he staggered back. Then there was a ping as he crashed into the fire extinguisher. Then there was a groan as he slipped down the wall and into heap on the floor.

“Do that again and I’ll cut your balls off.”

In the way that streams gush from beneath glaciers when spring comes to the fjords, blood gushed from Angus’s nose.

“What the hell did you do that for?”, he croaked as he held his hands in close proximity to his already swelling proboscis but not daring to touch it.

“You grabbed my tits, you pervert!”

“You never complained before.”

Whoops, shit! Phyllida and Angus were some sort of item. She hadn’t picked up on that one. Maybe this was going to be a bit more difficult than she thought. She’d definitely have to give her sister the third degree before she did do whatever it was she was eventually going to do with her.

“Ow, I think it’s broken.” Angus slid slowly back up the wall. The front of his crisp police shirt had shifted from the blue end of the spectrum to the red, almost black. “It is! Look, it’s moving about. Aagh!”

“Sorry, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

She’d seen more blood than this in the past, of course. You don’t spend time locked up with people who think they’re made of Belgian chocolate or that aliens disguised as Hereford Bulls have mated with them without seeing the occasional artery opened up. But on those occasions there had been trained staff to deal with that sort of thing. The best she could do at the present time was hover indecisively as he swayed in front of her.

For Angus, this was the most pain he had ever experienced. It was as though a red hot and very angry lobster had clamped itself on the front of his face. He felt nauseous. And dizzy. And possibly delirious. Phyllida seemed to have gone cross-eyed.

She put an arm around his shoulder. “Put your head back, that’s it. Let’s go and find some ice.”

The Security Guard looked up from the interesting article in “Rugby League News” (“Eye Gouging – Time for a Rethink?”) as a coach pulled up to the barrier. The driver leaned out of the window. “We right for Celebrity Shockers, mate?”

“Yeah, mate. Just park over there and follow the signs”.

“Thanks, mate.”

“No worries, mate.”

Up went the barrier and the coach rolled through into the grounds carrying its cargo of excited residents of the Mount Doom Anglican Retirement Village. Mixed with the exhaust fumes there was a definite whiff of overcooked cabbage.

Behind the coach came a shiny black four-wheel drive with the driver’s heavily tinted window winding silently down. “Good evening, we are guests of Mr Neville Beale . Mr Cruyff and Mr Bergkamp”.

The Security Guard scanned his list of persona who were grata and found the names.

“If you’d like to park over there, sir, reception’s in front of you. I’ll give Mr Beale a buzz, let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you”, said Mr Cruyff as he eased the vehicle forward. The Security Guard had the vague feeling that Cruyff and Bergkamp were, or possibly had been, famous Dutch soccer players but it wasn’t really his game so what the hell? He picked up the phone.

The coach, meanwhile, had parked in one of the spots reserved for such charabancs and its aged passengers began to disembark.

“Is it the wrestling?”, one old lady inquired of the driver as he helped her down the steps.

“No, Irene, it’s the telly. You know that programme you like? We’re going to see them record it.”

“Oh, good. Is he real, do you think?”

“Is who real?”

“Skippy. My friend reckons it’s just a dummy.”

Underneath a large sign proclaiming “Celebrity Shockers Audience”, an arrow pointed the straggling geriatric line towards the audience holding area. Mr Cruyff and Mr Bergkamp quickly overtook them and headed into reception.

It was party time in the Script Department which could only mean that the cold meat platters were out in force. Everyone sat facing the studio monitor as Rob charged their plastic cups with sparkling wine. He then stood in front of them, Henry V about to address the troops. Christ, he thought as he surveyed the scene; the poor starving, rain sodden, dysentery riven bastards squelching about in the muddy field of Agincourt waiting to be charged by the cream of French chivalry probably looked happier than this lot.

“Right, the special time of 7.30 approaches so I’d just like to Thank you all for your hard work on getting the live ep up and running. It’s all down to the actors now not to cock it up so please, raise your Styrofoam drinking receptacles to “Rickety Street” – twenty glorious years.”

He took a long gulp of bubbly as the others sipped and shifted in their chairs. Long faces? It was like a troop of horses outside the gates of a glue factory.

“What’s up with everybody? This is supposed to be a party. I know things have been a bit hectic lately...”

“Are we getting canned?”, asked Adam, bluntly.

“What?”

“Cancelled”, said Sally. “Is the show getting cancelled?”

The temperature in the room dropped by about ten degrees and time seemed to freeze with it. After what seemed several eons of reflection Rob managed to come up with a few rather uninspired words: “Canned? Cancelled? Who’s been spreading that bullshit? ‘Course we’re not being cancelled. Come on, jeez...” His dismissive manner and grin were, he knew, as glaringly fake as an acrylic Rembrandt.

“That’s not what the rumours are saying”.

“Rumours!”

“Carol in the kitchen heard Gary from Finance talking...”, said Sally.

“What would Gary from Finance know?”

“He’s married to Janelle in Programming.”

“My mate Ryan saw you at Channel Twelve”, said Adam. “Going into Gloria Ratchet’s office.”

“We’re old friends, me and Gloria, go way back.”

“You were meeting with a guy who’s got a show in development”, Adam continued. “What’s going on, Rob?”

He looked along the row of eyes, staring at him like the glinting barrels of a firing squad. At this point, a certain type of man would be standing tall and saying: no blindfold, just one last cigarette and vive la revolution; Rob was more the bloke who’d wet himself and cry for his mummy. Oh, what the...

“Look, there’s a chance, just a chance, a slight chance that we might get moved to a new time slot, that’s all.”

Suddenly everyone was talking at once. He’d opened the sluice gates and they knew there was more dirty water to follow.

“What time slot?”, asked Sally.

“Not entirely sure yet but it’s looking like ten, possibly ten thirty, that sort of time.”

Adam shook his head. “And then it’ll be eleven, then twelve, then middle of the night with the shopping for shit shows and the religious nutters and then we’ll be gone.”

This was exactly the scenario that Rob foresaw but he found himself saying: “That’s a tad pessimistic, Adam.”

“But you’ll be all right, won’t you?”, said Sally. “You’ll be over at Twelve with your new show.”

“It’s not really a new show, not as such. Anyway, it was just an exploratory meeting, that’s all. Besides, there could be jobs for all of you lot there.”

“ Yeah, right”, sniffed Sally.

“No, I mean it. I’d take you all with me.” Of course he would; why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Besides, this is all rumour and gossip and speculation at the moment. The truth is... the truth is...”