Not Dead Yet

92

‘That is so much better!’ Gaia said, sitting wrapped in her silk dressing gown as her hairdresser, Tracey Curry, standing on killer black heels, finished cropping her blonde hair.

Gaia stared approvingly in the mirror at her new cut, which was even shorter than a few days ago.

‘You’ll find that a lot more comfortable under that wig,’ the hairdresser said.

‘You’re a treasure!’ She turned to her assistant, Martina Franklin. ‘What do you think?’

‘It kinda suits you!’

Eli Marsden, her make-up artist, nodded approvingly. ‘It looks terrific!’

Gaia turned to her little boy, who was seated at a table further along the motorhome, watching a video on his iPad. ‘Roan, hon, you like Mama’s new hairstyle?’

‘Uh huh,’ he said glumly. ‘I’m bored. Can I go take a look around the palace?’

‘Sure, hon. Go take a wander, I’ll be in soon. Ask one of the security guys to walk you over there.’

Roan, dressed in a baggy blue THE KING’S LOVER T-shirt, jeans and trainers, jumped down from the table and scampered out of the air-conditioned chill of the trailer into the warm, clouding over, evening air. Deciding to ignore his mother and explore alone, he walked jauntily across the Pavilion lawns and up to the front door. The security guard looked down at him. ‘You’re Gaia’s son, right? Sloan?’

‘Uh, Roan,’ he corrected.

‘Sorry, Roan.’

The boy shrugged. ‘S’okay. Mama said I could take a look around.’

He gestured. ‘Go right ahead, Roan. Turn right when you go inside and follow the corridor and you’ll get to the Banqueting Room where your mum’s going to be filming.’

‘Okay.’

93

‘Okay, everyone, clear the doubles, please, the cast are coming on set.’ The voice came out of the baby monitor, loud and clear for some moments, then distorted by a feedback squawk.

Perched up at the top of the dome’s wooden frame, watching and listening, Drayton Wheeler began trembling with nerves and excitement. Now! Now! Have to do it now! He was never going to know for sure exactly when the cast would all be assembled around the table. He was going to have to rely on a calculated judgement – and luck. But this moment now was, in his view, the best shot he was likely to get.

He picked up the San Pellegrino bottle, his hands shaking so much he was scared of slopping some of the mercuric chloride acid on himself. Pointing it away, he unscrewed the metal cap, and it slipped from his fingers. He could hear it tumble all the way down the wooden slats, rat-a-tat-tatting, then as it struck something metallic, a loud ping.

He held his breath. Listened. Static came through the baby monitor. Then Larry Brooker’s voice, talking to the director. ‘We gotta make some time up. We’ve lost two hours thanks to that asshole.’

‘We can work on, Larry, keep everyone late,’ Jack Jordan said. He had a soft and precious voice that Drayton Wheeler found particularly irritating.

‘Don’t go there.’ Brooker was thinking about the budget and the overtime rates for some of the crew if they went over the maximum number of hours, Wheeler guessed. ‘You’ll just have to take some shortcuts,’ Brooker commanded.

‘Darling boy, this is not the scene to take shortcuts on.’

Wheeler could hear the disdain in the director’s voice, and thought, Don’t have a fucking argument, not now!

Another voice said, ‘Are we ready to fill the table?’

‘I want to see if Judd’s compos mentis enough to film before I bring everyone else in,’ Jordan said.

‘He’s fine,’ Brooker said. ‘I just spoke to him. He’s gonna be a pussycat tonight.’

‘He’s just leaving his trailer now,’ one of the Assistant Directors announced.

Wheeler listened to the words. Then very carefully, holding his breath, he tipped the entire contents of the San Pellegrino bottle on to the towel which he had wound around the single aluminium support shaft for the chandelier.

Instantly a wisp of smoke rose from the towel as it began to discolour into brown and grey blotches. Some of the acid ran further down the shaft. He continued to hold his breath, partly to avoid inhaling any of the fumes the acid released, and partly out of terror that it might drip down on to the table, way below, and get noticed.

More curls of smoke were rising. He moved down several slats, until he was below the level of the acid, then checked his watch. 7.04 p.m. If his calculations were right, at around 7.35 p.m. the acid would have eaten through enough of the shaft for the chandelier to plunge.

Through the monitor he heard the conversation between Larry Brooker and Jack Jordan continuing.

‘I’m telling you, darling boy, I cannot possibly shoot tonight if he’s wrecked.’

‘He’s fine, Jesus, I just spoke with him!’

‘You said that he was fine last night. He couldn’t remember his lines for more than ten seconds. You know who this is going to reflect on? I don’t work this way, Larry. I just can’t connect with him. Do you understand?’

‘He’ll be fine. Good as gold.’

‘He was complaining to me yesterday that Gaia was chewing raw garlic before their kissing scene. I think I should go and talk to him off set, before everyone else arrives.’

Shit, shit, shit, Wheeler thought. Just get the jerk on set. And everyone else!

He watched Jordan walk out of the room. One of the Assistant Directors said into his microphone, ‘Hold all cast.’

No! Wheeler urged, silently. Bring them on, bring them on, get them into position!

Suddenly he saw a small boy, with mussed-up brown hair, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, walk into the room, duck under the ropes and walk towards the table. Gaia’s little brat, he recognized from earlier.

Fuck off kid! Get out of here! Clear off, you little bastard!

The boy wandered, curious, around the table. He peered, nosily, at the hams, chickens, haunches of venison, suckling pig, silver flagons of ales and wines, and bowls of fruits. Then he pulled up a chair at the table, sat down, and stared around him, with a regal air, as if imagining himself back in time.

Clear off, kid!

He looked just like his own son.

Suddenly there was a strange sound directly above him. A sharp hissing. He looked up, and to his shock, the entire interior of the dome above him had disappeared in a swirling mist of acrid smoke. He could feel it burning his lungs, parching his mouth.

Sudden panic gripped him.

There was a piercing, creaking sound.

He looked down for an instant, and the chandelier was trembling.

No, no, no.

His careful calculations had come out at thirty minutes. What had he got wrong?

It was shaking even more now, and the creaking was getting worse.

The damned boy was still sitting there, lifting a silver goblet as if pretending to drink from it.

He coughed, the acid fumes burning his eyes and searing his throat. Half blinded, tears were streaming from his eyes. He coughed again, a long, deep, choking, hacking cough. Get lost, kid! Scram!

His goddamn calculations were wrong. Had he screwed up on the acid strength? The calculations of the diameter of the aluminium?

There was a terrible screech of stressed metal, right below him. He looked down and to his horror could see