Starburst (10 page)

O
n a warm, cloudless morning at the beginning of August, Jeff Banyon strode along Princes Street at a brisk pace, feeling a bead of sweat break out from under the collar of his shirt and trickle slowly down his back. There was still one week to go before the Fringe started in earnest and two weeks before the International, but already there was an increase of tourists on the street. He body-swerved a tall blonde probably Scandinavian couple, heavily laden with haversacks, who had suddenly stopped to consult a street map, then almost stumbled over a young Japanese photographer who was squatting down on his haunches trying to work out the best angle to capture the line of sail-like pennants that hung on every lamppost from the Scott Monument to the junction with Lothian Road, heralding the forthcoming festival.

When his mobile rang, Jeff had to juggle with his briefcase and jacket, which he carried forefinger through hanging loop and slung over his shoulder, to free up a hand to answer the call. As he walked, listening more than he was speaking, he looked down over Princes Street Gardens to where the railway track broadened out before entering Waverley Station to see if the eleven-o’clock train to London was yet in sight. He quickened his pace to a loping run as he turned down Waverley Bridge, seeing the slanted front of the dark-blue-and-red GNER engine appearing from the tunnel below the castle. It was a natural reaction, but then, on glancing at his watch, he realized he still had a good ten minutes before its scheduled departure, so he slowed once again to a fast walk, not wanting to be soaked with perspiration by the time he boarded the train.

As he made his way into the station he ended the call and slipped his mobile into the breast pocket of his jacket, letting out a sigh of relief. It was his fourth season working with the Scottish Chamber Orchestra and dealing with the organization of the Fireworks Concert, yet time and experience did not seem to make it come any easier. Over the last three months he had managed to speak with Roger Dent, the owner of the Exploding Sky Company, on just four occasions, and it was only now that it had been confirmed to him they had finally succeeded in scoring the Tchaikovsky piece and had already begun to stockpile the required equipment and hardware needed for the show.

Dealing with Roger had always been one long run of high-octane stress. The man was a law unto himself, totally unorthodox in the way he conducted his business, but at the end of the day he never failed to come up with the goods, always producing a display that left the audience open-mouthed in awe, something his company had succeeded in doing for the past twenty-odd years. However, Jeff knew that Roger Dent would never be aware of the amount of bluffing and barefaced lying he himself had to solicit on the part of the pyrotechnic to appease the demands and inquiries of both the sponsors of the Fireworks Concert and Sir Alasdair Dreyfuss, the director of the International Festival.

He flashed his ticket to the stern-faced official at the barrier and made his way down the long platform towards the front of the train. Thank goodness he had known well in advance about today’s meeting in Newcastle. It had resulted in his acquiring a first-class ticket off the Internet at a much-reduced rate. That gave him at least an hour and a half of comfort and tranquillity to gather his thoughts before meeting with Sir Raymond Garston, the man charged with conducting the Scottish Chamber Orchestra when it accompanied the Fireworks Display on the final Saturday night of the festival.

In the rear section of the train, Leonard Hartson eventually managed to squeeze his suitcase into a luggage rack, half a carriage away from where he had his reserved seat. He edged his way back along the central aisle, his path hindered by children who stood staring in blank fascination at other passengers, and old ladies who were hoping to rely on the goodwill of others to help them put their bags and coats up onto the overhead racks. Eventually, he found his seat and excused himself past his travelling companion, a man of stocky build and unshaven face wearing a woollen plaid shirt and jeans tucked into rigger boots. As Leonard squeezed past him he noted from the reservation ticket on the man’s seat he had boarded the train at Aberdeen and already there were several empty cans of McEwans Export on the table in front of him. Leonard smiled briefly at the beery-breathed man before sitting down in his seat with a puff of relief and turning to look out of the window at a young family on the platform who were mouthing words of farewell to an elderly lady seated in the row in front of him.

Despite Gracie’s encouragement, he had taken his time over his decision to agree to Nick Springer’s request. In the cold light of day after the producer’s visit, Leonard began to doubt his ability to take on the Edinburgh job and to question Nick’s judgement in not using a cameraman who had both age and technical knowledge on his side. Nick, however, was not to be swayed and arranged for Leonard to study the work of a young freelance cameraman for a week, saying that Leonard could give him an answer after that period.

It turned out the cameraman knew well of Leonard’s reputation and appeared more agitated and nervous at the prospect of working with the cinematographer than Leonard was of starting from scratch. Leonard had stood aside as the young man set his lights, watching in fascination as he positioned the small 1K redheads to illuminate an area that would have required at least two 5Ks as “fillers” in his day. Leonard politely questioned the man about the speed of his film stock, doubting whether he had enough lights to shoot the scene without the need to “bump it up” a stop or two during processing in the laboratory. The cameraman had told him there had been a huge improvement in both the quality and speed of Eastman Colour over the years, and then, knowing the reason for Leonard’s question, he had cast a look at his lighting set and said with a smile that he thought he would probably get away with it. Leonard continued to study the young man’s technique as fine adjustments were made, and as his own knowledge came flooding back, he found himself having to bite his tongue at times to stop himself from suggesting the use of a piece of diffuser scrim here or the partial closing of a “barn door” there. But then later, when he had walked around amidst the nostalgic blaze of lights with his old leather-cased Weston light meter held out in front of him, Leonard was very glad that he had held back any form of criticism. The set was not lit for any great effect, but it was certainly perfectly balanced.

However, it wasn’t until Leonard touched the redesigned body of the Arri-flex 16SR3 camera that he suddenly felt back where he belonged. His hands moved instinctively around the grainy cast of the apparatus, accustoming himself to the new positioning of handles and buttons and focus lugs. With a steadying hand on the rear-mounted film magazine, he levelled the tripod head, unlocked the tilt and pan levers and with his eye pressed to the foam eyepiece on the adjustable viewfinder, he swung the camera through a smooth figure of eight, exactly the same movement he had practiced so many years ago with the old two-wheeled mechanical Moy head on the studio floor at Ealing. The young cameraman watched his action closely, and then changed the static lens for a Canon 10:1 zoom, inviting him to try it out. Leonard pressed the button on the automatic zoom, marvelling at its smooth action and thinking that long gone were the days when a jerky movement on the manual lever would have resulted in a scene reshoot. With the zoom tight in, he focused on a book that lay on a table in the centre of the set, and then returning to wide angle, he once again went through the figure of eight, ending up close in on the book, perfectly focused. When he had finished, he locked off the tripod and stood back from the camera and smiled. Nothing had changed, and he knew from that moment on he still had the knowledge and the ability to accept Nick’s commission.

And now, having carried out his recce in Edinburgh, and having seen the warehouse the location scout had found, Leonard knew exactly what he required. He had made out the list the night before in his hotel bedroom and faxed it to Nick’s production manager. In two weeks’ time, he would be back here in Edinburgh to meet up with his assistant cameraman and two electricians who would be bringing the equipment up from London, ready to start the job.

The train eased off slowly on its journey south, and Leonard watched as the young family waved frantic goodbyes to the woman in the train, moving quicker along the platform in an attempt to keep up with the carriage as it accelerated away. Then, just before they were out of sight, Leonard witnessed the effects of a sudden gust of wind blowing at the woman’s cotton dress, making her push it down between her knees, her mouth oval with embarrassment.

Three miles to the north of Waverley Station, over the genteel crescents and ordered rows of the New Town, that same surge of wind blew hard through the weathered concrete five-storey blocks of council flats on Pilton Mains before losing its force somewhere out over the expanse of the Firth of Forth. It billowed out the lines of faded washing that hung on the small railed balconies, a flash of green breaking the grey starkness of the scene as a Hibernian football strip fluttered earthwards from a washing line on the top floor. It landed noiselessly beside a young boy with a shaven head and a silver stud in his ear who had been ambling across the bare swathe of litter-strewn grass. Darting his eyes around the buildings to make sure no one was looking, he quickly picked it up and bundled it into the folds of his zipped jacket, before walking on with practiced nonchalance.

In Thomas Keene’s bedroom, situated on the third floor at the end of one of the blocks, an empty Tesco Baked Beans tin, positioned on the extreme edge of the broken-backed chair by his bed, also fell victim to the gust that blew in through the uncurtained window. It clattered to the ground and rolled noisily across the bare floorboards, leaving in its wake a trail of ash and self-rolled cigarette butts, adding little to the detritus already covering every square inch of the room. The figure on the bed stirred under the crumpled, uncovered duvet and a leg shot out in a long juddering stretch, revealing a dirty green undersheet that was too short for the grubby, swirl-patterned mattress. After a moment of complete stillness, the duvet was thrown back and Thomas Keene, known to those few friends he had in the locality as T.K., greeted the brightness of the new day with a rub at his stinging eyes, a long and successful sniff, and a string of expletives.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, T.K. sat for a moment in his T-shirt and shorts, scratching his head and dragging fingers with difficulty through his thin tangle of greasy brown hair. He stood up and pulled on a pair of jeans that had lain in wait since he had removed them the night before, and then, progressing a step further, he pushed his bare feet into a pair of dirty trainers, their laces already tied, and kicked them on as he walked over to the bedroom door. Pulling a hooded sweatshirt off the bare screw in the wall that had at one time supported a shelf, he opened the door and walked into the sitting room, where his father slumped low in a battered armchair, smoke curling from the cigarette he held cupped in his hand, as he eyed vacantly the chatty banter of the presenters on the television.

“Whit’s there tae eat?” T.K. asked, pulling the sweatshirt on over his head. He stood rubbing a hand down the soft, unshaven stubble on his pock-marked cheek, his mouth hanging open as if the weight of his flabby bottom lip were too much for his narrow jaw to bear.

His father answered with a negative flick of his head.

“Could ye gie’s some money, then?”

“Awa’ tae hell,” his father replied, without taking his eyes off the television. “D’yae think ah’m daft or summat?”

“It’s fi food.”

“Oh, aye?” T.K. shook his head slowly at his father’s mistrust. “Ah’m clean, you know. Ah havnae touched the stuff fi twa months. Gie’s some credit fi tha’.”

Putting the cigarette in his mouth, Thomas Keene senior turned, a sneer on his face, and began to slow-handclap his son in strong, aggressive beats, the action making the long ash fall from the cigarette onto his mountainous belly. He scattered it with a flick of a finger and turned back to the television. “Try getting yersel’ a joab then, if yuv stopped fryin’ yer brains.”

“Ah cannie.”

“How no?”

“There’s naine aboot.”

“Well then, dae wha ye did last year. Awa’ an’ tak’ photies of a’ thae tourists aw aboot the toon.”

“Ah cannie,” T.K. replied morosely.

“How?”

“Ah’ve flogged the camera.”

His father turned and glared at him. “Fi a fix?”

“Na, fi cash!” T.K. replied angrily. “Ah told ya before, ah’m clean!”

His father shook his head and leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the table in front of the television. “Mon then, get yersel’ uptoon and see wha gives.”

“I’ve nae change fi the bus.”

His father let out a long sigh. “God gae ye legs, lad. Awa’ an’ use ’em.” T.K. shambled over to the door of the flat and opened it with force. He turned and gave his father a middle-finger salute before slamming the door behind him.

He always used the stairs, because the lift never worked, and if it did, there was more likelihood of being roughed up inside it. Nevertheless, he was now in the habit of sticking his head around every turn in the staircase as he descended, just in case there was a dealer hanging about or someone waiting for the chance to dish out a bit of GBH. He took the concrete steps two at a time, his hand sliding down the graffitied wall, trying to hold his breath for as long as possible so he didn’t have to take in the mixed odour of disinfectant and urine that came at every turn. He burst out into the sunlight at the bottom, heaved in a gulp of fresh air and made his way across the estate to the cul-de-sac where the dustbins were kept, the entrance to the shortcut uptown.

As he turned into the cul-de-sac, he stopped and quickly pulled back against the wall. He edged his head around the corner of the building and eyed the two policemen who were walking around the dark blue Ford Mondeo. One was talking in a low monotone while the other was writing details down in his notebook. The police car was drawn up alongside the stolen vehicle, its blue light flashing, but T.K. could hardly make it out in the glare of the sun.