Benjamin and Elizabeth both smiled the same knowing smile.
“Theatres don’t believe in spoiling their actors. Might give them ideas above their station,” said Benjamin.
“It’s expected that you customise your room, according to your own needs and wishes,” said Elizabeth. “Put up your own photos, messages of support, good reviews. Flowers. Whatever you need to feel good.”
“And anything lucky,” said Benjamin. “Because actors are always great ones for superstitions, on and off stage. Because in this business you need all the good luck you can buy, beg, borrow, and steal.”
“Exactly,” said Elizabeth. “Given all the things that can and will go wrong, often out of sheer cussedness, on any given night, on even the meanest of productions, it is us against the gods, darling, and don’t you ever forget it. In the theatre, lucky charms are ammunition. I’ve known dressing-rooms where you couldn’t move for holy medals, support gonks, and rabbits’ feet.”
“I never did get that one,” said Happy. “What’s lucky about a rabbit’s foot? I mean, it didn’t do the rabbit any good, did it?” He glanced at the door, to make sure it was still open and his escape route was still clear, before turning back to the actors. “Do all the dressing-rooms look the same?”
“Pretty much,” said Benjamin. “Stars get one to themselves, of course. Supporting roles double up; and everyone else gets crammed into whatever rooms are left. On some of the bigger Shakespearean productions, I’ve seen lesser roles and walk-ons filling up the corridor and hanging off the fire-escape. We actors do like to say
“We guard our privileges jealously,” Elizabeth agreed. “Because we have to work so bloody hard to get them.”
“But we’re all good companions once the play’s under way,” said Benjamin. “Because we’re all equal when we’re standing in the wings, waiting for the curtains to open. When it’s only you and your talent and the lines you’ve beaten into your head versus an audience that will eat you alive if you weaken for one moment. It’s not a cast and an audience then; it’s Christians and Lions. That’s where camaraderie and fellowship come in. Because it’s always going to be us versus them.”
“And afterwards, in the theatre bar or the nearest pub, or right here in the dressing-rooms if we finish late, it’s party time till you drop!” Elizabeth said gleefully. “All for one and one for all; and do your best to respect everyone else in the morning. If these walls could talk, you’d have to be over eighteen to get in here.”
“Elizabeth!” said Benjamin. “Look!”
Happy’s first thought was to check whether the door was still open and whether anyone was in his way if he decided to leave in a hurry. The door was still open, so he looked back at Benjamin. He was staring at the mirror on the wall and pointing at it with an unsteady hand. Happy and Elizabeth followed his gaze, to a single photo wedged into the left-hand frame of the mirror.
“That photo wasn’t there a moment ago,” Elizabeth said steadily. “Not when we first came in here…”
“Are you sure?” said Happy.
“It’s not something you can be wrong about!” said Benjamin. “You said it yourself: no frills or fancies. If there had been a photo on that mirror, I would have noticed it. No-one is supposed to have been back here in twenty years. The renovators didn’t get this far before they all quit.”
They all stood awkwardly before the mirror, maintaining a respectful distance while still leaning in to get a better look at what was in the photo. Elizabeth finally reached out a hand to touch the photo, but Happy quickly stopped her.
“Best not,” he said. “Might be real, might not; might even be booby-trapped.”
“What?” Benjamin said sharply. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Ghosts like to play tricks on people,” said Happy. “You don’t get to be a restless spirit by being sane and well-adjusted. Most ghosts run on bad feelings, or an undying need for revenge on a world that’s moved on and left them behind. So, when in doubt, keep your hands to yourself.”
They all studied the photo carefully. A standard eight-by-ten, with slightly faded colours, showing a group of actors filling the photo from side to side and from top to bottom. Three rows of five people, cramming themselves in to get everyone in the shot. Smiling and laughing and full of life. A much younger Benjamin and Elizabeth were right down in the front row, grinning broadly, positively glowing with happiness and good cheer. They looked even younger than twenty years allowed, as though life had not yet got its hooks into them. They looked…brighter, sharper, less weighed down by the world. All of the actors in the photo were wearing old-fashioned clothes, costumes from the 1920s. And a hell of a lot of stage make-up, which hopefully hadn’t looked quite so…dramatic, under stage lighting.
“Costumes and make-up would suggest the photo was taken right after we’d come off stage,” said Benjamin. “If we’d been about to go back on again, we wouldn’t have been so happy and relaxed. No, this looks more like a celebration…”
“So many familiar faces,” said Elizabeth. “And I can’t put a name to half of them…”
“This has got to be from when we first started here,” said Benjamin. “But what play was it…?”
In the photo, the young Benjamin and Elizabeth were sitting on either side of a handsome, striking young man their own age. They both had their arms across his shoulders. They gave every appearance of being the closest of friends, like they belonged together, and always would.
“Who…is that?” said Happy, pointing without touching.
“That…is Alistair Gravel,” said Elizabeth.
She and Benjamin looked at each other again. There was a lot going on in that look, a connection Happy could see but not understand. He did see a new sadness in their faces, and a heavy tiredness in their bodies. Elizabeth turned away first, to look at the photo again with an entirely fake bright smile.
“I know this photo,” she said. “I’ve seen it before. But what play was it?”
“Got it!” said Benjamin. “That’s from
“I don’t know it,” said Happy.
“You wouldn’t,” said Elizabeth. “People only remember Barrie for
“Yes…” said Benjamin. “I remember.”
Happy looked carefully at the young man sitting between the young Benjamin and the young Elizabeth. He was definitely their age, mid twenties or so; but he was more handsome than Benjamin and more glamorous than Elizabeth; and his natural charisma easily eclipsed theirs, even in an old photo. His grin was wide and charming and effortless; the kind most actors have to practice in front of a mirror for hours, before they can risk going on a chat show. But you could tell this look hadn’t been practiced; this was the real thing. He looked as though he had the whole world at his feet. Of all the people in that photo, he was the one you’d naturally point to as most likely to succeed.
Not Benjamin or Elizabeth.
“What was his name again?” said Happy.
“Alistair Gravel,” said Elizabeth, and the fondness and sadness in her voice were very clear in the small room. “We did a lot of good work together.”
“He was the best of us,” said Benjamin. “A good friend and a great actor.”
Fondness and sadness and…regret, in his voice, thought Happy.
“He was the original lead in our play,” said Benjamin. “He would have been magnificent…Everyone thought so. And then he died—suddenly.”
“An accident,” said Elizabeth. “A stupid accident. So tragic.”
Her voice trailed away. They all looked at the photo, at the bright young things. Full of talent and promise, not knowing what lay ahead of them. And one by one, Benjamin and Elizabeth called back names to fit the faces, helping each other out when necessary, so no-one would be forgotten and left out. So many of them were dead now: illness, drugs, suicide. Actors tended to dramatic deaths as well as dramatic lives, it seemed. And of those who did survive, only a few had gone on to any kind of success.
