Chapter Fifteen
What
with the gate, the traffic and the difficulties of following his
GPS on alien roads, Laurie was late for his first day on set.
Anxiety clutched at him as he bounced the jeep through the maze of
alleys around the hinterland of the Ivory Gate lot. He’d been told
to report to the main entrance, but no sooner had he identified
that by its magnificent arch than he almost ran into the crowd of
kids filling the plaza in front of it. He jammed on the brakes.
This mob seemed calmer than the one at the airport. Maybe it was
okay to smile at them, to wind his window down.
A burly
bouncer in a headset mic appeared on the pavement, making frantic
gestures for him to turn around. Laurie obeyed, waving
apologetically to the leaping, dancing crowd in his rearview
mirror. A few hundred yards down the road, a smaller set of gates
swung wide at his approach, and he swerved inside with
relief.
The
gates must have been opened remotely from somewhere within the
warehouse-like building in front of him. The yard he’d arrived in
was empty, and when he switched off the engine, eerily silent. The
square of sky above the high, sand-coloured walls was so deep a
blue he saw it as violet. As he watched, a huge bird sailed across
it and began to circle on an updraft, casting a spiralling shadow
on the yard. He got out and stood watching, holding the frame of
the truck’s door for balance.
“Oh, crap. Fuck!”
Laurie
swung round at the stifled exclamation. It was followed by a fit of
coughing. There was one patch of shade in the bare yard, cast by a
small, scrubby tree, and there in the shadows was Bailey Price,
perched on an upturned crate and clearly trying to conceal the
remains of a joint. Laurie raised his palms placatingly. “All
right, mate. I’m not the drug squad.”
Bailey
fell off his crate. He righted himself clumsily. “Shit, man! I’m
sorry. Don’t bust me, okay?”
“They’ve been pretty nice to me out here so far, but I don’t
think I’ve got powers of arrest.” Bailey gaped, and Laurie decided
he’d better wear his red nose and clown shoes for any further
straight-faced British jokes. “I won’t bust you. What’s the
matter?”
“I was meant to catch you on your way in. A bunch of Moonies
got through the perimeter and they’ve blocked up the main gate. Did
you see them?”
“Moonies?” Laurie fought a surge of unreality, brought on by
the blazing sun and the rich tang of cannabis drifting in the air.
“Are they still a problem out here? I haven’t seen any in London in
years. Their guy died, didn’t he—the Reverend Moon?”
Bailey looked bewildered. “Moonies, man. Blood Moon fans. What the hell
are you talking
about?”
Laurie
drew a breath to explain. Then he looked again at Bailey. He was
Laurie’s own age, but there was somehow a huge gap. His eyes were
oddly empty behind their gold-brown lights. “Never mind. Yeah, I
saw them.” He slammed the Cherokee’s door and went to set Bailey’s
crate upright. He held him by one shoulder and absently dusted him
down, as he would have tidied Clara after a tumble. “They seemed
pretty docile, though—not like the mob at LAX. Why don’t your
security guys just round them up and send them back
outside?”
“Not this time. It’s called controlled invasion. If it’s a big
crowd and they’re not too crazy, the studio lets them stay. The
press picks it up and it makes us look good. Screaming fans raid Blood Moon set again, you know? Anyway, Libby sent me to stop you and bring you in
here. But I got sleepy, and I thought I’d have—you know—a smoke
break, that’s all...”
“Uh-huh.” Laurie, who didn’t care what he smoked, patted his
shoulder absently. “Relax. I got here, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Oh, shit, I better take you in.” Suddenly his whole face
lit up with a smile that made Laurie see how he’d ended up here in
the hot gaze of the world. “I’m glad they hired you for Devlin,
dude!” He flung an arm around Laurie’s shoulders. “You’re a nice
guy. I can tell. Normal.”
Laurie
smiled, letting himself be led off. Normal was fine with him, and
by contrast with the glaring world around him, controlled invasions
and gated communities, he almost felt it. “Ta. Listen,
though—you’re a pretty big deal around here, aren’t you? Playing
Calvin, I mean.”
“I guess. Why?”
“Why does Libby push you around? You’re a great big Hollywood
megastar, not the production manager’s dogsbody.”
“Her what?”
Again,
that startled vacancy, as if this sunshine-coloured boy had been
raised in a sealed flask, free from all cultural cross-pollination.
Laurie searched his databanks for an alternative term. “Her gofer?
Is that right?”
Bailey
burst into laughter. “Exactly right. It’s okay—it’s all in my
therapy programme. I’m a recovering addict.”
Laurie
glanced involuntarily back at the remains of the joint still
smouldering in the dust. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.
You don’t have to tell me—”
“Hell, I tell everyone. That’s part of the therapy too. And
that spliff back there—man, that’s candy compared to the shit I’m
recovering from.” He keyed open a metal door with a security fob
and gestured Laurie inside. “Don’t look so worried, English—I’m
good. My therapist says I’ve spent so much time giving in to my own
impulses, that’s just how my brain works now. So the best cure’s to
give in to somebody else, let them take the place of my
temptations. So whatever they tell me to do around here—fetch cars,
go with Libby to meet cute English guys at the airport—that’s what
I do. It keeps me busy. And clean.”
All this
had been delivered with a throwaway verve that almost passed for
sincerity. Laurie had listened as sincerely as he could in return.
Now, though, he shook his head and smiled at Bailey through the
shadows of the cavernous space in which he found himself. “Okay.
Good story. That’s got to be bollocks, though—hasn’t
it?”
Bailey
met his eyes. “Jeez,” he said, half resentfully. “Smack a guy down,
why don’t you? Okay—I’m on probation here, megastar or not. I got
pulled over with enough cocaine on me to make Elvis dance on his
grave. The studio told the press they’d fire me—distance themselves
from my corrupting influence, not to mention my insurance—but the
second film was partway done by then, and Douglas knew he had to
keep me on. I went belly-up on primetime TV with a touching
confession. You probably saw it.”
“Er—no. I don’t get to watch much TV.”
“Don’t worry, it’s on YouTube. Ivory Gate made bank on it, big
time. I’m a reformed young sinner, saved by the power of
Blood Moon. Off camera,
though, I’m Libby Palermo’s bitch.” He shrugged, dismissing the
subject like silver glitter shaken from rags. “That’s Hollywood for
you. Hey, did you see the sign on the way in?”
“No.” Laurie had meant to look for it—his first sighting of the
icon that had lured so many millions to this coast—but had been too
occupied with traffic. “I missed it.”
“No way! Tell you what—I’ll drive you out there after we wrap
tonight. Sunset’s the best time to see it. Then I’ll take you to a
bar. We’re gonna be bros, English—I know it.”
Laurie
was going nowhere after work tonight but back to Sasha’s side. He
ached for him—for his quiet, for his gaze, which would be like cool
water after the fevers and heat of this day. He didn’t bother
making his excuses to Bailey. He was fairly sure his mercurial new
friend would have forgotten the invitation long before nightfall.
Already he was turning away, grabbing Laurie’s arm and pointing
across the dazzling space before them. “Well, come on,” he said.
“Better come meet Douglas and the twins of evil before Libby sets
the dogs on me. What do you think of ancient Cairo?”
Laurie took in the space in front of him. He tried to, anyway.
First his vision told him he was standing at the edge of a small
market square, paved with broad slabs of dusty stone. There were
stalls set up all round it, every detail of their purpose lovingly
observed, from the gaudy cloths that draped them to the wares they
displayed—jewellery in lapis lazuli, red enamel and gold, baskets
of fruit Laurie couldn't identify, wickerwork cages piled high with
their doors open. The cages were empty but somewhere off in the
background he could hear squawking, and an incongruous West Coast
voice patiently asking the birds to settle
down, guys, settle down. At the far end of
the square a vast flight of steps rose up to a towering temple
facade. It was beautifully painted and carved. Anubis and lotus
blossoms, Laurie thought, reaching for his shaky knowledge of
Egyptian history. Guided by Bailey he took a step forward, and the
whole perspective shifted. A facade was all it was. Through the
magnificent doorway he saw wooden struts, machinery and camera
tracks, and then his vision expanded again, stretching out to take
in an utterly convincing backdrop view of pyramids, the sky above
them soaring up to merge imperceptibly with Californian day. He
caught his breath. “Bloody hell. You don't do everything with CG
and green screens, then.”
“Oh, no. They'll green-screen us onto the pyramids—the real
ones—for the close shots, but that's a painting. Dennis Ledger did
it. Reminds me of the matte art for that first Star Trek pilot—you know, the one
that was actually good...”
“The Cage?” Laurie offered in
amusement, trying to imagine this 21st-century product curled up in
front of a '60s TV with rabbit-ears aerial.
“That's it. Dude, didn't I tell you we'd be bros? My granddad
really liked that stuff. This is the sound stage for our shoot
today. They'll do the CG stuff later, but the market and the steps
to the temple and the chickens—once the animal-welfare guys get
through with them and bring them on—all that's just for us.” He
grinned, clapping Laurie on the shoulder. “It'll be cool. Running
and jumping and knocking shit down.”
Laurie
considered. It wasn't what he'd expected, but a weary part of him,