Chapter Fifteen #2
disciplined for too long in the rigours of English drama, could see
the pleasures of that. “Okay. Sounds like fun. Why are we in
ancient Egypt, though? Last time I looked, Devlin was up a mountain
in modern Tibet.”
“Oh, this is a flashback scene. Sets up our backstory—just you
and me, English, so Pugsley and Wednesday Addams can sit in their
trailers and sulk for the day.”
“We have a backstory?” Laurie didn't own a copy of the
Blood Moon script—like
all of the cast, in London he'd been given just the pages he needed
for that day's work, always delivered by a grim-faced security
guard who'd taken his signature for non-disclosure each time—but as
far as he knew, Devlin and Calvin had met at a Frost family dinner
in New York. “I didn't know.”
Bailey
chuckled. “Nor did Douglas till about three days ago. He decided we
should have more. I'm hanging around this market, trying to steal
blood from chickens—since I can't bite a human, you know—and you
come along and chase me. You're hiding out as a temple priest, and
you sense our ancient vampire brotherhood. You want to recruit me
for your band of dark immortals, but I'm still allied to ancient
Egyptian Carmen and Valentine, so we have a hell of a bust-up about
it. Douglas wants me sprawled out on the altar with your great big
sacrificial dagger at my throat.” Again came his ripple of
laughter, dirty and innocent at the same time. “That's actually
kinda hot.”
Laurie didn't dispute it. All the characters in
Blood Moon One and Two
had been conscientiously straight, but with a frisson of same-sex
attraction here and there, as seemed fashionable in recent
blockbuster movies. And the chase would make a great scene, he
could see that.
It would also render nonsensical half the plot as Laurie had
understood it so far. But that wasn't for him to worry about any
more, was it? He'd trotted out ideas and fixes as long as he had
been hustling for this job and all its benefits, but now he had it.
Everything he wanted. Douglas Brett could rewrite the film into the
bargain basket at all-night petrol stations right across the globe
as far as he was concerned. He tried to imagine feeling like that
about Sir Ralf's Romeo And
Juliet, or even the least of the theatre
productions where he'd had the least of parts. No—he'd sweated
every detail right along with the director. Counted bums on seats
on opening night as if his life depended on it. He shook his head,
surveyed the magnificent, surreal scene once more. “It sounds like
a blast. Douglas only thought this up three days ago, though? Was
there a spare ancient Cairo just lying around on the
lot?”
“No. He had it built from scratch. Oh, you've no idea of the
resources. We started off filming in the woods up in Vermont but
now I guess Doug could buy Canada. I hope you hit him up big with
your contract demands.”
“Big enough, I reckon. Come on—I can see Douglas over there.
And Wesley Lombard and the girl who plays Carmen—Nicole Delgado,
right? I haven't even met them yet. Do I take it they're the evil
twins?”
Bailey
made a face. “You're honoured they turned out for you now.
Wesley—well, you'll soon find out what his problems are. Nicole's
okay, I guess. She just can't cope with the Moonies, so she's
cranky all the time.”
“Are they that bad? The fans, I mean?”
“Dude, there's online pictures of Nicole taking a piss in a
bush when she got caught short on location. One of her hairs sold
on eBay for five thousand bucks. She's a little jaded... Hey, I
can't call you English all the time. Or dude, for that matter.” Laurie, who
hadn't asked for either, just raised a brow. “What should I call you, now that
we're bros?”
“How about Laurie?”
“Nah, that's for everyone. I want a piece of you just for me.”
He took Laurie's hand, openly and frank as a child. “I think I'll
call you Fitz. Yeah, I like that, English dude.”
Laurie shook his head. Sometimes it seemed that everyone in
the world had a different name for him, as if his fragmented,
chameleon stage life was bleeding its chaos into his own.
Sweet prince, Mr Jacobs
called him. Always Laurence
to poor Arnie, whose forthright tactlessness he
suddenly missed with a sharp pang. Mr
Fitzroy to Sir Ralf, once Laurie had
convinced him he'd resigned his baronet's privileges and didn't
need a Sir in
return. And even his own Sasha—Loz,
in moments of intoxication and the aftermath of
love... “If you like. And what do I call you, other than
Bailey?”
“You want a little piece of me, too?”
“Well, it sounds as if I'm gonna get one, doesn't it? If I have
to chase you round ancient Egypt and sling you down across my
wicked pagan altar.”
“They started calling me Price around here, after my TV
confession. You know—rehab, shame, addiction... The price of
fame.”
“Christ. I think I'll stick to Bailey.” The great bird passed
over the sound stage again, its shadow rippling up the temple
steps, the fake parts and the real. “What is that?” Laurie asked,
distracted by huge wingspan, the lazy, effortless flight. “An
American eagle? I've never seen one before.”
“You haven't seen one now. That's a vulture.” Bailey turned on
him a gaze gone suddenly worldly and cold. “That's Hollywood for
you too, Fitz. Do whatever you want, but don't fall down and let
the vultures see you. They're always circling here.”
***
Sasha
had never learned to drive. He did know how to swim, though. He
just couldn’t remember where he’d learned.
He
paused in his efforts to extract coffee from the restaurant-sized
Gaggia machine in the kitchen. Beyond the arch of the window, blue
water gleamed. Setting down his cup on the marble counter top, he
felt the shift of knowledge in his arms. He would put his hands
together, thumbs touching for a moment as if he were about to make
a bird-shadow on the wall for a child. He would stretch out his
arms. Then his hands would part. He would launch his body forward,
spine straightening, gravity letting him go. He remembered the feel
in his belly, the tickle of weightlessness. His legs would rise up
behind him. A moment of fear would turn to sheer joy as he kicked
off.
That's it, Alexandru! You're swimming!
He
dropped the cup into the sink. Where the hell had that come from?
The voice inside his head had been female: English accented, sweet.
It could have been his mother’s, if he’d ever known her. If he’d
learned to swim in her arms, not by falling into some dirty
Bucharest waterway, as had probably happened. He pressed his
fingers to his lips and stood looking out at the pool.
The
Gaggia was beyond him, but he found the remains of the hospitality
pack that had been left out for them, instant tea and coffee for
disoriented newcomers. There was no electric kettle, and the
enamelled pot on the oven top seemed almost too pretty to use.
Soon, though, he had a mug of coffee with enough sugar in it to
jolt himself free of visions, memories and dreams, and he found his
way out of the kitchen and into a kind of courtyard cloister, arch
after arch framed with wisteria and heady with scent of
jasmine.
He thought it strange that there was no breeze, until he put
out a hand to the space beneath one arch and found crystal clear
glass in his way. How was he meant to get out? The pool was in the
courtyard, and he wanted urgently to be near it, to feel again the
stir of swimming muscles in his arms and legs. That's it, Alexandru... She’d have
put a hand beneath his stomach, holding him briefly. Then she'd let
have him go.
He
fumbled almost in panic for his set of key cards. Laurie had been
too tired to show him how to use the Gaggia machine, but had knelt
over him in their Spanish oakwood bed, smiling and coaching him
about the locks. You just had to swipe to let yourself out. But the
door would lock behind you—if you propped it, you would trigger an
alarm—so you had to keep keys with you at all times, and remember
the thumb-print scan to get back in. Fighting a sense that his
beloved partner had gone quietly and considerately nuts, Sasha
found the right card and pushed open the heavy door.
He took his coffee to a white marble table by the poolside. It
was quite late, a big delicious heat beginning to build in the air.
Sasha's feelings on waking alone had been mixed. Laurie treated
Sasha's sleep as a precious commodity, and Sasha appreciated that,
but still he'd rather have been woken for a parting kiss, a
see you later, because
right now he felt like the only living creature in the world, and
the prospect of seeing Laurie ever again a theory only, a distant
probability. Then, when he had woken, he'd done so bolt upright
with a dying scream in his throat, and so his relief at Laurie's
absence had been profound. No more London
rain, Laurie had said, setting up this
paradise in both their imaginations. He hadn't added no more
nightmares, but Sasha had heard the hope of that in his
voice.
Nightmares, and now false bloody memories. Sasha leaned his
elbows on the warm marble, gazing at the pool. God, it was
beautiful—a sapphire oval, edged with tiny mosaic tiles, big enough
to work up a good long stretch underwater, which apparently Sasha
also knew how to do. He drew a breath and held it, counting. One
stroke, two, three, four. He might get to ten sometimes, but by
then she'd have been calling him, worried. Alexandru! Sasha!
She
would have taught him, perhaps in secret, on the days when she
could get away from Stefan and take him into the city. She'd dress
them both carefully, wash and comb away the signs of the ghetto so
that the people in the Pescariu baths would let them in. Yes. All
these things, if she hadn’t fled before her son’s brain could even
shape a memory of her voice. If she’d ever been there at
all.
He got
up and walked to the edge of the pool. He had brought swimming gear
out from England with him, perfectly aware that such things could