The zombie walks was one of the worst film scripts ever conceived. The Zombie (played by a well-known Horror Film Specialist) had walked for a thousand years in a subterranean cavern which was broken open by an earthquake in Lisbon. By means not specified, from Portugal he arrived in Victorian England, where he got the idea that Lady Laetitia Winthrop (played by a ‘discovery’ from the world of modelling, whose acting talent was 36-23-36) was his long-lost love from a world before the subterranean cavern. He therefore determined to seize her from Winthrop Grange where she lived with her father Lord Archibald Winthrop (played by a well-known character actor who did commercials for tea-bags). After the Zombie’s travels through Victorian London (where, incidentally, he committed the crimes attributed to Jack the Ripper) he arrived at the Grange and enlisted the help of Tick, a deformed coachman of evil character (played by Charles Paris). As the Zombie progressed, he committed murder after murder, and his victims, rather than dying and lying down, became zombies too, until at the end Winthrop Grange was besieged by a whole army of the walking dead. Had it not been for the activities of Lady Laetitia’s lover, bold Sir Rupert Cartland (played by an odious young actor who’d risen to prominence by playing a tough naval lieutenant in a television series) making with the garlic and the wooden stakes (a bit of vampire lore crept into the script), Lady Laetitia and her father would have been turned into zombies and carried back to the subterranean cave, where they would never be heard of again. Which, to Charles’ mind, wouldn’t have been a bad thing.
They were filming at Bloomwater, a stately home in Berkshire which had been built by Sir Henry Manceville, an eccentric nobleman, in 1780. Manceville had designed it himself as a great Gothic palace and even incorporated the specially-built ruins of an abbey into one wing. It was a monumental folly, which could have been made for horror films. In fact, had the cinema been invented at the time, it probably would have been. Sir Henry Manceville had been obsessed with ghosts and, in later life, when his eccentricity slid into madness, he used to terrify his servants by walking the Long Gallery, dressed in a sheet, dragging a length of chain and wailing piteously.
Bloomwater’s present owner was a more prosaic figure, Sir Lionel Newman, the paper magnate. He was a man who, like Marius Steen, had risen from humble origins to immense wealth and had surrounded himself with all the symbols of the established aristocracy. His association with Marius Steen had been the reason why Bloomwater was being used for the filming.
Charles found that, as ever, making a film involved much more hanging around than actual work. The director, a little Cockney who glorified in the name of Jean-Luc Roussel, generated an impression of enormous activity as he buzzed around checking camera angles, getting the lighting changed, demonstrating the special effects and bawling out the continuity girl. But very little actually seemed to get done.
Charles didn’t find many sympathetic characters among the cast. The Horror Film Specialist was surrounded by an admiring coterie of lesser horror film specialists and most of their conversation referred back to previous triumphs. (‘Do you remember that Dracula when your fang got stuck in the girl’s bra?’; or ‘I’ll never forget that girl who had hysterics during that human sacrifice’; or ‘Do you remember that take as the Werewolf when you forgot your line and said “Bow-Wow”?’) They all sat around, reminding each other of things they all remembered, each waiting his cue for the next reminiscence to be slotted in.
So Charles went off on his own most of the time. He sat in the Library (later to be the scene of the appallingly-written quarrel between Lord Archibald and Sir Rupert) and did the crossword or played patience.
On the Wednesday morning of the first week of the schedule he was sitting with the cards spread before him and feeling fairly secure. The film world still has an outdated generosity in its dealings with actors. The big-spending Hollywood myth retains its influence and the Zombie cast were well looked after by Steenway Productions, with cars organised to get them to and from the set. The early starts were a disadvantage, but Charles had minimised that by staying with Miles and Juliet and having the car pick him up at six. Then he could sleep through the drive and the laborious business of make-up. Quite cosy. And the money was good.
He also felt as secure as he could about Jacqui. The shock of the trip-wire incident had worn off and she was fairly well hidden. He’d wanted to send her off to some relative in the country, but she didn’t seem to have any family. In fact, when they went into it, it was amazing how few people Jacqui had to call on. No family, or at least none she kept in touch with, no girl-friends. The centre of her life had always been men, either one at a time or many. A lot of girls end up promiscuous, when all they’re looking for is friendship. Jacqui’s lack of other resources explained both her desolation when Steen seemed to have dropped her and her reliance on Charles. (Even her leaping into bed with him again. She needed to keep up her continuity of male companionship, and humbly thought she had nothing to offer but sex.)
Charles had considered parking her on Frances in Muswell Hill, but the incongruity of the thought of the two women together was too great. So in the end he had given her his keys to the room in Hereford Road. He felt fairly confident that Nigel Steen, or whoever was mounting the campaign against her, did not know of any tie-up with Charles Paris. Hereford Road was dangerously near Orme Gardens, but it was only a short-term solution while the film lasted. Jacqui was likely to stay in most of the time with her portable television; her pregnancy made her quite content to do so. Obviously she’d have to go out to the shops from time to time, but she’d had her hair dyed black on the Saturday, bought a new winter coat and a large pair of dark glasses. That should keep her safe. Charles could imagine Jacqui quite happy in her enforced confinement. Hers was not a demanding character, and so long as she felt some evidence of a man’s care (which living in Charles’ room would give her) she would not need more. When the Zombie had finished his walk, a more permanent method of protecting her for the next four months would have to be found.
They’d considered going to the police, but agreed that, after the embarrassing debacle of the inquest, further accusations from Jacqui against Nigel Steen would sound more like the ramblings of a paranoid than anything else. It was safer for her simply to go underground. Charles rang daily to check everything was all right.
So he felt secure as he sat looking over the rolling lawns of Bloomwater. To add to his pleasure, the patience came out. He was just laying the cards down for another game, when he heard the door open behind him. He turned and the girl who had just come in let out a little scream.
For a moment he couldn’t think what was worrying her, until he remembered his make-up. His own hair was hidden under a latex cap from which a few grey wisps straggled crazily. His eyes were red-rimmed and sagging, his nose a mass of pustules, and his teeth had been blacked out with enamel. The whole face had the unearthly green tinge of dead flesh, which Jean-Luc Roussel was convinced was the mark of a zombie.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Charles. ‘I’m afraid I do look rather a fright.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. I just wasn’t expecting it.’ The girl looked about sixteen and recently aware of her considerable attractions. Her black hair was swept back in the careless style that only the most expensive hairdressing can give. She was wearing check trousers and a red polo-necked sweater that accentuated the perfect roundness of her bra-less small breasts. For the first time in over a month Charles felt certain that he hadn’t lost interest in sex.
‘I take it you’re in the film,’ said the girl.
‘No, I always look like this. You’re making fun of my natural affliction.’
The girl was checked for a moment, then laughed. ‘That’s not fair. Who are you?’
‘I am Tick, the deformed coachman,’ he said in his First Witch voice (‘Macabre in the extreme’ — Plays and Players). She laughed again. Obviously she was still at an age to be amused by funny voices. Charles felt distinctly inclined to show off. ‘No, who are you really?’ she asked.
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Oh, I think I’ve heard of you;’ she said, polite but uncertain. Ooh, just a minute. Were you ever at the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford?’
‘Yes, a long time ago.’
‘About seven years?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you play Cassius in Julius Caesar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ooh. I thought you were marvellous. We went in a school trip. We all got quite silly about you.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles, in what stage directions describe as a self-deprecating manner. This was all rather playing into his hands. Seeds sown unknowingly long ago. Cast your bread upon the waters, and it will come back buttered. ‘Who are you then?’
‘I’m Felicity Newman. I live here. Daddy owns this place.’ (The ‘Daddy’ caught the slight quack of an English girls’ public school. It was a sound Charles had always found exciting.) ‘I’m fascinated by all this filming. Somebody’s going to show me round, a friend of Daddy’s. I want to work in films.’
‘With your looks I should think you’d stand a very good chance.’
‘No, silly.’ She was still sufficiently girlish to blush at the formula compliment. ‘Not that side of films. The production side. I’m doing a secretarial course and want to get in that way. Daddy knows quite a lot of people in the cinema.
Yes. Charles felt sure that Daddy could pull the odd string on his daughter’s behalf. Sir Lionel Newman put a great deal of money into film production. Charles even had a feeling that he was a major shareholder in Steenway Productions. ‘And how come you’re not doing your secretarial course today?’ he asked in the Morningside accent which he had drummed into the cast of his production of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (‘Slow-moving’ — Evening Argus).
She giggled. ‘Oh, I just took the day off. How do you do that Scottish accent?’
She was easily impressed, but Charles felt like indulging himself in a little tour de force. He went through his entire gamut of the accents of Scotland, from his Hebridean fisherman through to the harsh tones of Glasgow. Indeed, he was in full flood in his Detective-Sergeant McWhirter voice, to an accompaniment of giggles from Felicity, when he heard a voice behind him. ‘Ah, there you are.’
He stopped in mid-flow and turned to see Nigel Steen standing in the doorway. Steen looked annoyed, but it was difficult to tell whether or not he had recognised the voice. ‘Felicity. I’m sorry to have kept you. Shall we start our tour?’
‘Yes. Certainly, Nigel.’ She was suddenly downcast, obviously sharing the world’s lack of enthusiasm for Marius Steen’s son. ‘Do you know Charles Paris?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t think we’ve met,’ said Nigel Steen, and he looked at Charles intently.
The scenes to be shot were rescheduled and Charles didn’t in fact do anything that day. When this truth, which had been apparent from early morning, was finally recognised by Jean-Luc Roussel and Charles was released, it was about five o’clock. In a state of some exasperation, he was about to organise his car back to Pangbourne, when Felicity appeared round the corner of one of the make-up caravans. ‘Hello,’ she said brightly, ‘do you fancy a drink?’
It was exactly what Charles did fancy (or at least part of what he fancied), so he said so. ‘Come on,’ said Felicity, and led him round the back of the house and through a herb-garden into a large modern kitchen. ‘This is the part of the house we actually use. The rest’s just for show.’ She led him upstairs to a homely-looking sitting-room, and opened the drinks cupboard. ‘What?’
‘Scotch, please.’
She took out a bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a wine-glassful. ‘Hey. Stop.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s an expensive malt whisky.’
‘I know,’ she said superciliously, and passed him the glass. He took a long sip. It was very welcome. Felicity still looked rather piqued at his assumption of her ignorance of drink lore. He tried to open out the conversation. ‘Still keen on films after seeing them in action for a day?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly, and then, to show her sophistication in the matter of alcohol, ‘I think I’ll have a gin and tonic.
‘So it was a good day?’ Charles knew he sounded horribly patronising.
‘All right. The company could have been better.’
‘Nigel Steen, the great impresario.’
‘Shit,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘He’s a creep, always has been. I’ve known him for years. Daddy knew Marius. I think they had plans for match-making. Yeugh.’
‘Not your type?’
‘God, no. I don’t know what my type is really, but it’s not that. Ergh. He made a pass at me once. It was horrible, like being groped by liver. Actually, he invited me out tonight, probably with an ulterior motive. I told him I was otherwise engaged.’
‘Are you?’
‘No. Not unless you’d like me to cook you a meal.’
‘Oh well… I’m sure that you don’t want-’
‘It’s no sweat. I’m doing this Cordon Bleu course as well as the secretarial thing, and I need the practice.’
So they both agreed to show off for the evening. She demonstrated her culinary skills with a splendid Chicken Kiev and Dauphinoise potatoes, and he kept her entertained with a variety of accents and theatrical reminiscences. Felicity raided her father’s cellar for a couple of bottles of an excellent Chateau Margaux. ‘He’ll never notice. Doesn’t know a thing about wine. Just takes advice all the time.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Oh, they’ve gone to Jamaica. As soon as all these lighting restrictions came in, Daddy said he wasn’t going to stay in England and they pissed off.’ Felicity’s lapses into strong language, which were meant to make her sound cool, only made her sound immature. But appealing.
Charles found it very difficult. This girl was plainly throwing herself at him, and he knew that if he took advantage of something so easy, he would really feel shabby. And she looked sixteen. Possibly even under age. There is a point where going around with younger women stops and cradle-snatching begins. And Charles prided himself that he had never knowingly taken advantage of anyone (anyone, that is, who didn’t deserve it).
It would have been easier if he hadn’t found her attractive. Usually the sort of woman who makes such blatant advances is eminently resistible. But in Felicity’s case, she was not impelled by the plain girl’s need to take the initiative, but by youthful enthusiasm and social immaturity. Charles was determined to resist her.
But as the alcohol warmed and relaxed him, he could feel lust beginning to take the upper hand. When he had finished her excellent chocolate mousse, he made an immense effort of will, and rose to his feet. ‘I think I’d better be off now. I’m doing my big scene tomorrow. Perhaps I can ring for a minicab.’
She didn’t move. ‘What’s your big scene?’
‘My death. The death of Tick, the deformed coachman, shot down by Sir Rupert Cartland, as he rushes along the gallery to capture the abysmal Lady Laetitia Winthrop.’
‘You needn’t go.’
‘I must.’ Well done, Charles. The Festival of Light would be proud of you.
Felicity rose very deliberately from the table, walked towards him, and pressing her body close to his, kissed his lips. Charles stood like a carved idol receiving the homage of the faithful. He gave nothing. ‘I think I had better go.’
‘Why?’ She used that word disconcertingly often.
‘Well, I… um… you know…’ It was difficult to think of a good reason at a moment like this.
‘If you don’t find me attractive, you can say so. I’ll survive.
‘It’s not that. You gotta believe me, it’s not that.’ He dropped into American to hide his confusion.
‘Are you worried about my age?’
‘Yes. Amongst other things.’
‘Listen, Charles. I am eighteen, which is not only two years above the age of consent, but is also now the age of majority. And I’m on the Pill, so you needn’t worry about that.’
Her frankness was very confusing. Charles felt himself blushing. ‘Um… you mean, you’re not a virgin?’
Her short derisive laugh made him feel suitably patronised. ‘Charles, I lost my virginity when I was twelve, and since then quite a few other things have happened.’ The weakness of the ending of her sentence again revealed her youth.
Charles could feel his resolve slackening, but made one last effort. ‘I’m too old for you, Felicity.’
‘You’re not as old as the man who had me first.’
‘Oh. Who was he?’
‘Marius Steen.’
The next day Charles was feeling elated. He had parted from Felicity on good terms after breakfast; she had returned to continue her courses. He’d rung Jacqui, and she was fine. To crown the day, he was going to film the death of Tick, the deformed coachman, and he enjoyed a bit of ham as much as any other actor.
They rehearsed the scene in the morning. Tick crept in through the window of the dining-room and surprised Lady Laetitia Winthrop playing at her virginals (a likely story). He carried a rope with which to bind her. When she saw him, she let out a little cry (that bit took ages to rehearse: every bit that required Lady Laetitia to do more than flash her tits took ages), then turned and ran to the end of the room. Tick cried out, ‘Not so fast, my proud beauty!’ (really), and pursued her. She ran up the stairs to the minstrels’ gallery with Tick in breathy pursuit. (That was filmed in long-shot from the other end of the room.) Then a quick close-up of Lady Laetitia cowering panic-stricken against the wall. (That took a long time too. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Jean-Luc Roussel; ‘panic-stricken, not bleeding constipated! Imagine he’s going to cut yer tits off!’) Then a long-shot from behind Sir Rupert Cartland’s shoulder as he forced open the dining-room door, saw the scene of Tick advancing menacingly on his beloved (or ‘that silly bitch’, as he always called her off the set), raised his pistol, cried, ‘No, you monster’ and shot the deformed coachman. Tick stopped and staggered. Cut to close-up of blood trickling from his face as he fell against the rail. Cut to shot of stuntman falling backwards over rail to the floor.
When the rehearsal was finally over, they adjourned for lunch in the billiard room, where the covers on the tables had a splendid buffet laid on them. Charles piled up his plate and sat on his own in the corner. To his surprise, two men came over and joined him. They were called Jem and Eric; he recognised them; they’d been around since the filming started. Jem was one of those burly figures who proliferate on film-sets. His role was ill-defined except to himself and other members of his union, but he spent most of his time carting scenery around and moving heavy props into position. Eric was a smaller, colourless man who worked in some clerical capacity in the production office. They never said much on the set except to each other. Nobody took much notice of them or expected them to start up any form of conversation, so Charles was surprised when Eric addressed him by name.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a bit of a query on your contract,’ said Eric in his flat London voice. ‘Been a typing error on some of them. Maybe on yours. Anyway, we want to send a duplicate just in case. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘OK. Fine.’
‘Don’t seem to have your address. Where should we send it to?’
Charles gave him the address of Maurice Skellern Artistes.
‘Oh, we want it signed quickly. Wouldn’t it be better if we sent it to your home?’
‘No. My agent deals with all that kind of stuff.’
‘Oh. Oh well, fine. We’ll send it there then.’ And Jem and Eric wandered off.
It gave Charles an uncomfortable feeling. True, it might be a genuine enquiry, but it could be Nigel Steen relating him to Jacqui for the first time. If so, a new hiding-place must be found quickly. Yes, it was fishy. If a new contract had to be signed urgently, why hadn’t Eric brought it to him there and then, rather than posting it? Still, there was a bit of breathing space. Maurice would never give away the Hereford Road address and very few people knew it. Even friends. Charles hated the place so much he always arranged meetings in pubs, and never took anyone there. But the incident was disquieting.
He soon forgot it as the filming restarted. It was painfully slow. Lady Laetitia had forgotten all she’d been taught in the morning and everything had to be rehearsed again. Charles felt he would scream at another repetition of ‘Not so fast, my proud beauty!’ But progress was made and, shot by shot, Jean-Luc Roussel was satisfied. (‘Not bleeding marvellous, but it’ll have to do if we’re going to get it all in before the bleeding electricians have their bleeding break.’)
Eventually Lady Laetitia and Tick made it to the minstrels’ gallery. Then there was a long break as the cameras were set up for the dramatic shot over Sir Rupert Cartland’s shoulder. Make-up girls fluttered in and out with powder puffs. Electricians looked at their watches and slowly pushed their arc-lights about. Jem handed Sir Rupert his props. Sir Rupert complained that one of the buckles on his shoes was loose (the shot was only going to reveal his right ear and shoulder). Eventually all was ready. ‘The Zombie Walks: Scene 143, Take One’-the clapper-board clapped shut. Tick advanced on his prey cowering constipated against the wall. The doors of the dining-room burst open. Sir Rupert Cartland cried, ‘No, you monster’, and a shot rang out.
Charles Paris felt a searing pain as a bullet ripped into his flesh. He crumpled up in agony.