Chapter Six
Stefan’s in Budapest, Stefan’s in Budapest...
The northbound Tube banged out the beat of it, and
Laurie, strap-hanging, tried to let the message be hammered into
his brain. Stefan’s in
Budapest...
Yes, and ever since Laurie had made that blithe statement one
week ago, sealing the promise with a white rose and a kiss, he’d
been far from sure of its truth. He and Sasha hadn’t got as far as
the end of the street before a dark shape had detached itself from
the crowd, paused on the corner ahead of them as if looking back,
and then flickered away. Every other time Laurie left the house,
there he was—or there someone
was, because there were tens of thousands of
black-haired Eastern European men of the right age sharing Laurie’s
streets, buses, Tube platforms, and Laurie’s acquaintance with
Stefan Petrica was limited to the Interpol mug shots John Kucharski
had shown him. He had started to notice another spectre, too—a
figure in a grey hooded top. Well, such apparitions were hardly
scarce either. One of them was sharing the crowded Tube carriage
with him right now.
Laurie
shut his eyes. Someone’s umbrella was poking his backside, and his
arm was stiff with the effort of shielding a little old lady from
being crushed by a backpacker’s giant rucksack. The carriage rocked
and jerked. Smells of rainy-day London assailed him—wet clothes and
hair, summer dust turning to the fine grit that got everywhere,
under nails, into the corners of the eyes, driving scents of earth
in hot blasts ahead of the trains. Fresh sweat and stale. A trace
of a cologne like Sasha’s, transformed by a different body
chemistry but near enough to make Laurie smile.
His fears were just paranoia, brought on by the added
responsibility of knowing there was no doctor, not even an
inadequate one, to help guard Sasha from his dreams. That was
Laurie’s job now, and although the new regime was working well,
they were both tired. And Laurie always got twitchy between jobs,
too much time on his hands, dangerous projects occurring to him
like trying to learn how to cook. This time he’d turned his
idleness to good account, taking a short RADA fencing course. He’d
enjoyed it, and the hours had left him free to track Sasha to work
in the mornings, fall invisibly into the crowd behind him at night
and escort him home. He was sorry for the subterfuge but a more
direct approach was impossible. Love, I
keep thinking I see your father—the essence of your
nightmares—following us around.
Things
would be different from today. The Tube began its groaning, hissing
slide to a halt at the Barbican. From today he would be Romeo, who
had no notion of Eastern European gang cultures or vengeful demons
from the mahala. Romeo—making the moony, self-centred git loveable
despite his weaknesses, or maybe because of them—would be an
all-consuming task. Sasha would go back and forth to his Guidance
Council job in perfect safety, just as he always had, and the world
would feel normal again. The umbrella handle made a last assault on
his balls with the forces of deceleration, and the old lady turned
and glared at him by way of thanks for his guardianship. He nodded
and smiled in return, and squeezed his way off with the exiting
crowd onto the platform.
He was
in no hurry. He liked to savour the last hour before an important
rehearsal. The certainty of work, of a role that would transform
him, freed him up to enjoy being himself, and he fell into an
amble. The platform was open to the rainy June sky. Victorian
railway arches lifted their heads to meet the ugly, intriguing
contrast of the Brutalist Barbican estate flats that towered above
them. The crowd quickly thinned, leaving him behind.
A hand
closed on his elbow. He whipped around. His swordfighting classes
had left his reflexes raw and sabre-sharp: his evasive step took
him out of range of the grey hooded figure and any blades the
bastard might be carrying. “All right. What the hell do you
want?”
The grey
hood went back. Beneath it was a kid of about Clara’s age,
wide-eyed with fear at the effect she’d produced. “Are you... Are
you Laurence Fitzroy?”
Laurie
expelled a breath. Great. Yes, he was ready for anything, wasn’t
he, provided it was a sixteenth-century duel on the streets of
Verona. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Yes, I am.”
The kid brightened. “I knew it. My mum said I shouldn’t follow
actors around on my own, but you were so good in All’s Well, and then I saw you as
Teddy in Flare Path before that, and I knew the rehearsals for R and J were
starting this week, so when I saw you on the Tube...”
Laurie let her rattle on, tuning her out while he signed
the All’s Well programme she produced, then a T-shirt, then a carefully
prepared page in a notebook. To my friend
Alexandrina, with love from.... She was
sweet, but hearing his talents extolled by a fanatic pre-teen was
awkward. Hardly his target audience. “There you go,” he said, when
she was beaming and clutching her treasures. “Your ma’s right,
though. Don’t follow strange men on your own. Follow them in a
screaming pack like a normal kid, then I guarantee you’ll be safe.
Are you meeting someone here?”
“My summer-school acting coach, up in the Frobisher rooms.
“
Laurie
looked at the empty platform, lonely now between trains. The long
stretches of walkway and corridor that separated this scrap from
her destination. He sighed, then held out his arm. “May I have the
pleasure of escorting you?” Her jaw dropped, and after a second’s
hesitation she shot out a hand and grabbed him ferociously. They
set off, Laurie wondering if he’d ever get his circulation back.
“Fancy treading the boards, then, Alexandrina?”
“Oh, yes. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” She pulled a face. “I
wish I had a different name, though. Nobody called Alexandrina ever
made it.”
“It’s a bit quaint for a megastar, perhaps. Can’t you change
it?”
“My ma would never forgive me.”
“How would she feel if you shortened it? Sandrine has a bit of a
ring.”
“Sandrine...” She rolled the name around, repeated it loud
enough to bounce off the arches on the far side of the tracks.
“Sandrine Fulton! Oh, that’s wonderful.” Then she sobered. “I’m
sure I’ll never get to use it, though. I’ll never be anything like
you.”
Laurie
watched her. She was bursting with pride at the dubious honour of
being on his arm, but her real focus was inward, trying out her new
stage name in a variety of flattering, spotlit scenes. “I wouldn’t
worry,” he said wryly, leading her up the stairs. “I should think
you’ll do okay.”
***
He
dropped Sandrine Fulton off at the fourth-floor Frobisher rooms,
and made his way to the lifts slowly enough—just—for her to drag
all her friends out to see who had brought her. The lift doors
closed, and he forgot her with fugal totality. It was time for him
to change.
Sir Ralf
was rehearsing his actors in Barbican One, setting them to work
from the very beginning in the arena where their final masterpiece
would take place. He forbade all outside interference—no tourist
parties wandering through, no smaller productions using the space
after hours. This cost the theatre a good deal in PR and rent, but
Sir Ralf was Sir Ralf, and until he deemed otherwise, Barbican One
was Verona.
Laurie
stepped into the narrow, cobbled alleyways. There was carpet
underfoot, but that was irrelevant, as was the security desk
outside the stage door and the overarching roof with its
state-of-the-art lighting and acoustics to die for. Under the
maddening Italian sun, some Montagues and Capulets were trying out
their paces on the broad, beautiful stage. A hell of a space to
fill, but by the time he’d padded down the aisle as far as row F,
Laurie had no fears of it. No more concerns than if it had been the
town square, or Juliet’s garden, or the terrible churchyard where
he was destined to lose faith too soon and destroy her in the
process. He smiled. He couldn’t wait.
There
was Sir Ralf, looking uncharacteristically harried. He was in
consultation with a burly, bald-headed man Laurie at first didn’t
recognise, his mind now expecting only players and the
magicians—directors, stagehands, costumers—who brought the play to
life. “Arnie,” he said faintly, the sweet Verona world becoming
bricks and mortar around him, just another theatre. “What are you
doing here?”
Arnie
and Sir Ralf turned to face him. “Oh,” Ralf said in a mix of
apprehension and relief. “Laurence. I’m glad you’re here, dear boy.
You see, there’s really nobody I’d rather have to lead my cast than
you, but when you auditioned...” He paused to run his hands over
his short crop of white hair. “Well, there was no talk of riders,
or salary, or the kinds of contract terms Mr Hamlin here wants to
put into place. I think you know my reputation well enough to be
sure that I treat my actors generously. And my people will draw up
your contract, but...”
Laurie
held out a hand to him. It was very courteous, because no-one told
Sir Ralf to talk to the palm, but it was effective. Laurie felt
strange—scared and relieved at the same time, as if he’d just
gained permission to unleash a dangerous animal. His spine
straightened. Arnie, who normally met his gaze from an equal
height, seemed to be looking up at him. Arnie’s eyes were suddenly
fearful. “I’m sorry, Sir Ralf,” Laurie said, his voice soft in
proportion with the beast’s potential roar. “Mr Hamlin is here
because I took this role without consulting him, and I can only
assume he’s now attempting to restore his ego and his wholly
imagined ownership of me. The contract terms are fine. And by the
way, Arnold, you’re fired.”
Arnold
gaped. “Laurie, don’t be ridiculous. Is this because of Sunday?
That business with Alison? Surely not my gaffe with that old pansy
at the Queen’s.”
“No, though that didn’t do you any favours. It’s because you’re