Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure (4 page)

‘Oh tell me about it,’ Lewis says, groaning. ‘Plays havoc with my back it does.’

‘Get down the gym then, you lazy shit,’ Sven says with a grin. ‘Ask Henri to spot for you.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Henrietta says quickly, earnestly but with a cheeky grin.

‘How often do you work out?’ Carl asks.

‘Me? Five days a week,’ Henrietta says. ‘What about you?’

‘When I can but on set it’s hard especially if we’re on location.’

This is brilliant. I can hold conversation about weight training with men. I know the terms, the references, the best proteins and isolation exercises. I am fucking awesome!

A two-hour after-party, so that means she has six twenty-minute segments. Twenty minutes per group, give or take, and she can make decent progress on the new ladder.

‘So where do you guys all hang out then?’ Henrietta asks at a natural break in the now relaxed conversation.

‘The Pot in Soho? You know it?’ John asks hopefully.

Never heard of it.
‘Oh I know it,’ Henrietta says. ‘I’ll have to come down for a beer one evening.’
Bet it’s a right sleazy shithole dump.

‘Hey we do a quiz on Thursdays,’ Lewis says. ‘You can join our team.’

‘Great!’ Henrietta beams at Lewis.
A fucking pub quiz? What the fuck?

‘It’s where most of us go,’ Sven says knowingly, ‘all the technical lot. You know, try and get away from the egos and relax.’

‘Sounds like my kind of place. Far too many egos in this business,’ Henrietta says.
Twats.

‘All the winnings go to the charity,’ Lewis says, nodding eagerly.

‘What was that?’ Henrietta asks.

‘The quiz, it all goes to charity.’

Charity. Switch on, Henrietta.

‘Oh wow, that’s so nice,’ Henrietta says, nodding sincerely. ‘Every Thursday did you say?’

‘Every Thursday,’ John says, noticing Henrietta’s growing interest.

‘What do you win?’ Henrietta asks, looking round at the men.

‘Ah you know, bottle of spirits, choccies…little things like…funny stuff, you know?’ John says.

‘That is so nice,’ Henrietta says, pulling a soft maternal expression. ‘What’s the charity?’

‘The winning team picks it,’ Lewis says. ‘You fancy it one night then?’

‘Easy now,’ she quips with a wink that makes Lewis blush and his mates burst out laughing. An instant internal wince at the natural fallback of flirting but the company is fine and the comment was taken in context. ‘I would love to. How about we make it a special night and get more money? Maybe I could ask someone to come and play…do you think that would help?’

‘Fuck yes,’ Lewis says, nodding eagerly.

‘Like who?’ Sven asks.

‘I don’t know, maybe first prize could be…’ She stops to think, or at least pretending to look like she is thinking.

‘A date with you!’ Lewis says

So easy.

‘Me?’ Henrietta asks, laughing self-consciously.

‘Oh the boys would love that,’ Sven says. ‘We’d raise tons of cash.’

‘Yes, yes, okay,’ Henrietta says as though contemplating the thought seriously. ‘I’m up for that. Do you want me to ask Bennie and The Boys if they’ll do a gig for free?’

‘Seriously?’ Sven asks, leaning in. ‘You’d do that? We’re only technicians…’

‘Oh give over,’ she says, tutting at Sven. ‘I do that stuff all the time.’

‘Do you?’ he asks.

‘Yes, private events. Nice and quiet. Not for publicity.’

‘Oh wow,’ Lewis says, falling in love on the spot.

Sven is suspicious. Recover this quickly.

‘Tell you what,’ Henrietta says, opening her discreet clutch bag and pulling her phone out. ‘Sven, give me your number so I can call and arrange it.’

‘You’ll call me?’ Sven asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

‘Course, silly,’ she says, activating her screen.

He reads the number out as the men watch her keying the digits on the screen. ‘I’ll prank you,’ she says, pressing the green call button.

His phone vibrates in his hand with the screen lighting up as Henrietta Swallow’s number is displayed across the front. ‘Save that…and it’s Henrietta, not Jordan or Jodie…’ she says, looking up at him.

‘Thank you,’ Sven says as the suspicion drains from his face and the others laugh.

So easy. Time to move on.

‘Well, John. Lovely seeing you again. Sven, I’ll give you a call in the week to get it arranged.’

‘Yeah, okay. Cheers, Henri,’ Sven says, still stunned that his phone now holds Henrietta Swallow’s mobile number.

I am awesome. I am Henrietta Swallow and I will succeed.
It’s right there. The path to the top is glittering in front of her. Henrietta can create a buzz and this is just a different form of buzz. Get them all talking and mentioning her name. Do the quiz, have a date; it’s only one night. Lay the groundwork and hope to fuck Dolan gets to hear about it.

She turns away ready to infiltrate the next faction and stops dead. Her senses are alive. Her perception is the sharpest it ever has been. The hunger inside making her think fast, work fast and move fast while all the time judging every reaction and nuance of those around her. She hasn’t consumed alcohol but has sipped mineral water and she hasn’t taken cocaine or smoked a joint in years. All those paths of her life converge to form a person staring at the doors to the bouncers blocking the path of the man she saw in the crowd earlier and forcing him back. He rushes forward at seeing Henrietta inside the foyer and calls out but gets pushed hard by a bouncer forcing him towards the alley at the side of the theatre. She watches intently, staring across the vestibule, through the gaps in the group and past the commotion at the open doors to something else on the far side of the road.

It’s the motion that catches her eye. The manner of movement. The stiff legs trying to run with arms hanging limp that don’t work in coordination with the rest of his body. The head rolling side to side and forward and back as though the neck is broken. Never before has she seen someone with such an uncoordinated manner moving so fast. Far faster than he should be.

The noise in the foyer is loud. Background music playing from speakers that join the increasingly drunk chattering of the people now free from being forced to watch the awful movie.

Someone brushes past, jostling her position, but she pays no heed. Someone else says her name, calling for her attention but still she pays no attention and the hand on her backside goes unnoticed as the lurching man on the far side of the road suddenly stops and turns on those stiff legs to stare across at the theatre and the blood-red carpet bordered by the press smoking and sipping plastic cups of coffee that wisp into the clear, hot air.

Blood down the front of his once-white shirt. Red and glistening. Blood on his face. Blood on his neck, arms and dripping from his hands. Blood coming from his mouth that hangs in strands and she flinches when he animates again and bursts to life with that staggered run into the road. A flash of headlights. The horn blares. The man is hit with a sickening crunch of bones and sent spinning over the bonnet and the roof of the taxi that slews to a stop. The press turn, seeing the devastation. Dozens of cameras start flashing at the body lying mangled on the road. The driver’s door of the taxi bursts open and the poor cabbie runs back to stare down with his hands clutched to his head in shock.

A woman screams outside. The bouncers all start running. Henrietta paces several steps towards the open doors. The mortals clinging to the barrier in a hushed silence broken only by the whimpering cabbie and the cameras clicking dull and fast.

‘AMBULANCE NOW.’ A bouncer bellows the words out with his black shirt straining over his wide back as he drops down to lean over the corpse. Bare fingers push into the neck of the body as he searches for a pulse. Phones are dragged from pockets. Screens shining bright as trembling hands rush to dial three nines.

‘He alive?’ another bouncer asks, staring down at the blood pooling across the road.

‘Fuck!’ the bouncer leaning over the body shouts and pulls away to spin round in a circle, clutching his bleeding hand. ‘Fucking bit me…’

‘He did what?’ the second bouncer asks in shock at the sight.

‘Fucking bit it off,’ the injured bouncer roars in pain, staring at the stump of his index finger spurting blood an inch into the air.

‘Jesus,’ the other bouncer whispers, shaking his head.

‘CUNT,’ the bouncer with nine and a half remaining digits explodes as he lunges to kick the body on the ground. More black-shirted bouncers rush forward to pull him back.

‘Here look…Henrietta’s out…OI, SWALLOW…GIVE US A SMILE, LOVE!’

‘Henri!’

‘Henrietta, over here…’

‘Fuck me, he’s on his feet…’

As one the press pack turn back to the bouncers restraining one of their own while the run-over man sways unsteadily on the spot, having risen unseen. His mouth opens with bloody drool spooling out with half a finger that slides from his peeled-back lips.

‘MY FINGER…’

‘How the fuck is he standing up?’ one of the paparazzi mutters, snapping away happily.

‘Good shots, though,’ another one replies.

‘Henrietta, what’s your reaction to the bouncer having his finger bit off?’ a reporter shouts.

An explosion of movement as the run-over man lurches forward, slamming his mouth into the back of a bald-headed bouncer trying to hold his mate down. A gnash of teeth and a chunk of flesh is ripped away as the bouncer spins round screaming in pain with a hard fist lashing out to smash the run-over man back down to the ground.

‘OVER HERE, HENRI,’ a paparazzi shouts, wanting to get her reaction to the violence exploding but feet away.

‘Wanker.’ A bouncer hops away, clutching the bite mark on his left shin and muttering oaths and foul curses.

‘I can’t get through,’ a woman shouts with her phone pressed to her ear. ‘Someone else try…’

‘I’m trying…It’s engaged.’

‘How can the fucking police be engaged?’

‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?’ a huge voice booms out as Jack Adams strides past Henrietta towards the bouncers now kicking the shit out of the run-over man. ‘The fucking press are right there, you twats!’

The bouncers stop sudden and with guilty faces flushed as red as their legs bleeding from the bites inflicted by a mouth refusing to stop snapping out.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Jack growls, staring down at the clear broken legs and arms of the man on the floor. ‘Put them fackin’ cameras down…all of you…if I see one picture of this fackin’ mess printed or online I’ll burn your fackin’ houses down…not one picture mind.’

‘Yes, Jack.’

‘Sorry, Jack.’

‘Course, Jack.’

The paps comply instant and humble with lenses lowered as they stare over at the writhing, bleeding and broken body now crawling across the road towards Jack Adams.

‘Tommy?’ a bouncer calls out as the one with his finger bitten off suddenly clutches his stomach and drops to the ground screaming in pain. ‘Tommy? Someone call an ambulance…’

‘Can’t get through…’

‘What d’ya mean you can’t get through?’ Jack demands, staring round in fury at the chaos. ‘Fackin three nines, you dumb twats.’

‘S’engaged,’ someone else shouts.

‘Rob?’ The second bouncer with the torn scalp drops down clutching his stomach to writhe on the ground.

‘Fack off,’ Jack Adams says, stepping back and away from the broken man trying to crawl towards him.

Henrietta watches with horror creeping up her spine at the wild, bloodshot eyes of the man dragging himself over the pavement, his broken legs splayed out useless with blood smears lying thick in his wake.

‘TOMMY…’ Bouncers kneel down trying to tend to Tommy and Rob now curled up in foetal positions as excruciating agony burns through their guts.

‘Henri, go back inside,’ Jack says, glancing round to her standing rooted to the spot.

‘Henrietta! Over here, love…give us a smile…’

‘You lot are fackin’ vultures,’ Jack says, shaking his head sadly as the paps all turn to the one thing they can take pictures of.

‘Are you shocked by this incident, Henrietta?’ the reporter yells out. ‘Do you think the injured man will live? Any words for his family?’

She looks down at the crawling man snapping his mouth open and closed with audible clicks of his teeth sounding out.

‘Fuck…Tommy’s stopped breathing…Tommy…TOMMY…’

‘Where’s that fucking ambulance?’

‘It’s engaged…’

‘I can’t get through.’

‘Henrietta, are you sad about the bouncer dying? Any words for his family?’

‘Rob’s dead! ROB…Fuckin’ hell, Jack. Do something.’

‘Henrietta, what’s it like to see two people die right in front of you? Have you any words for their families?’

‘Knobby…Jack! Knobby’s gone down now…’

‘I can fackin’ see that for myself,’ Jack says, stepping away from the crawling man again.

‘Henrietta, do you think the third bouncer will die, too? Any words for his…’

‘Shut up,’ Jack shouts.

‘Kev’s gone down, Jack.’

‘Stop fackin’ telling me everything!’

‘Henrietta, what do you think about this massacre?’

‘Hey, Tommy’s back up…Tommy, you alright, mate? You had us all worried…what’s wrong with his eyes, Jack?’

Henrietta looks up from the crawling man to Tommy sitting bolt-upright with the same red bloodshot eyes then over to Rob rising up in one smooth motion with his own bloodshot eyes opening wide and staring.

‘Here, Jack…Rob’s alright, too.’

‘I can fackin’ see THAT!’

‘Henrietta, are you relieved the two bouncers are no longer dead?’

‘Tommy, stay down till the ambulance gets here. Tommy? Tommy, don’t get up…fuckin’ hell, Tommy. SHIT…’

Tommy surges up on strong legs and slams into his mate leaning over him. Teeth clamp on a throat that gets ripped out with a wet gargling noise of air rushing through a broken windpipe. The arterial blood sprays over the mortals clinging to the barrier that scream in horror while holding phones to record the devastation.

Henrietta stares wide-eyed and watching as Rob goes next. Surging up and crossing the short distance to slam his heavy body into the low metal barrier separating the press pack from the red carpet. Paparazzi scream in terror as Rob goes down into their midst. They burst apart with lenses pointed down and flashes snapping bright at the doorman floundering to get back to his feet. Knobby and Kev sit up with red bloodshot eyes staring hungrily out at the world and yet more bouncers go down from the bites given by Tommy. The metal fence at the press pack goes over completely as the mad rush of reporters and photographers try to flee the raging Rob sinking his teeth into anything he can reach.

‘Henrietta…what do you think of this evening? Was the film any good?’ the same reporter yells, running backwards while taking pictures of his mates being killed.

Henrietta watches Knobby fix his awful eyes on the mortals clinging to the barrier. A split second later and he’s charging towards them going through and over the low metal fencing. Screams and cries of shock. People trying to film it on mobile phones. Others still trying to call the emergency services. Jack shouting for everyone to pack it in. Rob biting down into a photographer still trying to take pictures with the flash strobing away and capturing the arterial spray of blood arcing into the air in high definition.

A woman staggers past Henrietta and slams into Jack Adams who spins round and punches her hard to the side of the face. She goes down, knocked out cold, giving the crawling man something new to aim for. Carnage everywhere. Chaos unfolding as more black-shirted bouncers sit bolt-upright to stare out from red bloodshot eyes.

A sense of curious detachment settles on Henrietta who watches the whole thing like a movie being played out, and for a second she even wonders if this is some amazing practical joke and starts to grin stupidly until the wet munching sounds penetrate her ears and she looks down to see the crawler chewing into the flesh on the woman’s cheek. Blood spurts out, spraying drops on Henrietta’s bare legs that she stares at without sensation or thought registering.

Then the sound hits her. The incredible noise of a riot in full swing. Men and women screaming in pain, agony and terror. Cameras still flashing and blood everywhere. Spraying, pumping, coursing and spurting from ragged wounds on limbs, torsos, necks and faces.

Finally she starts walking backwards towards the door, swallowing in shock at the sight of Jack Adams pulling a small handgun from a pocket and firing into the head of a woman lunging at him with teeth bared and ready for the bite. A firecracker noise and the back of the woman’s head blows out, sending chunks of flesh and bone onto those behind. Jack turns to aim with a steady, well-practised hand firing into the face of a reporter rushing towards him.

‘Henrietta, what do you make of the lack of response from the emergency services?’ the reporter shouts, running in circles round and through the imploding violence.

Henrietta rushes back into the door frame that makes her stumbles and trip into the foyer, falling down at the feet of those still talking and drinking inside.

‘Drunken slut,’ the rancid old haggard whore says with the same delighted haughty tone of voice.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the doors, Henrietta crabs backwards into the legs of the editors and scriptwriters, forcing them to step away. Tuts and huffs ripple at the sight of Henrietta Swallow once again drunk on the floor and all eyes on her as she watches the door and the immensity of the bedlam erupting outside.

‘Henrietta, get up,’ Dolan says heavily, leaning down to grip her upper arm. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

She looks slowly up at his bearded face then back to the door and the sight of several bleeding bouncers with red bloodshot eyes now staggering stiff-legged towards the foyer. Huge men with massive shoulders and thick necks. Gruesome and macabre yet still the make-up artists, the sound and light engineers, the scriptwriters, editors, producers, casting scouts and directors stare over and down at the wonderful sight of Henrietta Swallow making a tit of herself while she scrabbles frantically backwards towards the bar with Dolan desperately rushing after her.

‘Henrietta,’ he hisses. ‘For god’s sake get up.’

The crowd within the foyer condense inwards to watch Henrietta and in so doing they present their backs to the doors and the encroaching bloodied people storming through.

‘Kick her out, I say,’ the rancid old haggard whore screeches from the back. ‘She is an embarrassment to the industry…good god you can see her knickers.’

As the men in the room drop an inch to see if you really can see her knickers, Henrietta gets a glimpse of the rancid old haggard whore gloating happily from the back and sucking air into her parched old lungs, ready to throw out more verbal insults. Henrietta’s eyes widen, a scream forms on her mouth, but it’s too late to give warning, too late to do anything and the rancid old haggard whore is slammed into from behind and sent scuttling forward by the combined weight of the steroid-bulked bouncers. Teeth bite through the silk scarf into the wrinkled neck while the old woman screams at the affront of being manhandled. Time slows. Henrietta watches it second by second. The size of the bouncer in comparison to the frail old lady. The crimson spreading through the white patches of the silk scarf and the look of indignant horror on the old woman’s face as she goes down to be trampled and broken.

At the bar, Bennie and The Boys remain blissfully ignorant while deep in serious discussion with Capriana and Candice about the prospect of group sex. Drunken concern is expressed at either of the two seemingly lovely women selling the story later while rapidly being convinced that Capriana and Candice are really not like that and would never dream of such a thing.