Bite The Wax Tadpole Page 19

  She put an arm around his shoulder. “Put your head back, that’s it. Let’s go and find some ice.”

  The Security Guard looked up from the interesting article in “Rugby League News” (“Eye Gouging – Time for a Rethink?”) as a coach pulled up to the barrier. The driver leaned out of the window. “We right for Celebrity Shockers, mate?”

  “Yeah, mate. Just park over there and follow the signs”.

  “Thanks, mate.”

  “No worries, mate.”

  Up went the barrier and the coach rolled through into the grounds carrying its cargo of excited residents of the Mount Doom Anglican Retirement Village. Mixed with the exhaust fumes there was a definite whiff of overcooked cabbage.

  Behind the coach came a shiny black four-wheel drive with the driver’s heavily tinted window winding silently down. “Good evening, we are guests of Mr Neville Beale . Mr Cruyff and Mr Bergkamp”.

  The Security Guard scanned his list of persona who were grata and found the names.

  “If you’d like to park over there, sir, reception’s in front of you. I’ll give Mr Beale a buzz, let him know you’re here.”

  “Thank you”, said Mr Cruyff as he eased the vehicle forward. The Security Guard had the vague feeling that Cruyff and Bergkamp were, or possibly had been, famous Dutch soccer players but it wasn’t really his game so what the hell? He picked up the phone.

  The coach, meanwhile, had parked in one of the spots reserved for such charabancs and its aged passengers began to disembark.

  “Is it the wrestling?”, one old lady inquired of the driver as he helped her down the steps.

  “No, Irene, it’s the telly. You know that programme you like? We’re going to see them record it.”

  “Oh, good. Is he real, do you think?”

  “Is who real?”

  “Skippy. My friend reckons it’s just a dummy.”

  Underneath a large sign proclaiming “Celebrity Shockers Audience”, an arrow pointed the straggling geriatric line towards the audience holding area. Mr Cruyff and Mr Bergkamp quickly overtook them and headed into reception.

  It was party time in the Script Department which could only mean that the cold meat platters were out in force. Everyone sat facing the studio monitor as Rob charged their plastic cups with sparkling wine. He then stood in front of them, Henry V about to address the troops. Christ, he thought as he surveyed the scene; the poor starving, rain sodden, dysentery riven bastards squelching about in the muddy field of Agincourt waiting to be charged by the cream of French chivalry probably looked happier than this lot.

  “Right, the special time of 7.30 approaches so I’d just like to Thank you all for your hard work on getting the live ep up and running. It’s all down to the actors now not to cock it up so please, raise your Styrofoam drinking receptacles to “Rickety Street” – twenty glorious years.”

  He took a long gulp of bubbly as the others sipped and shifted in their chairs. Long faces? It was like a troop of horses outside the gates of a glue factory.

  “What’s up with everybody? This is supposed to be a party. I know things have been a bit hectic lately...”

  “Are we getting canned?”, asked Adam, bluntly.

  “What?”

  “Cancelled”, said Sally. “Is the show getting cancelled?”

  The temperature in the room dropped by about ten degrees and time seemed to freeze with it. After what seemed several eons of reflection Rob managed to come up with a few rather uninspired words: “Canned? Cancelled? Who’s been spreading that bullshit? ‘Course we’re not being cancelled. Come on, jeez...” His dismissive manner and grin were, he knew, as glaringly fake as an acrylic Rembrandt.

  “That’s not what the rumours are saying”.

  “Rumours!”

  “Carol in the kitchen heard Gary from Finance talking...”, said Sally.

  “What would Gary from Finance know?”

  “He’s married to Janelle in Programming.”

  “My mate Ryan saw you at Channel Twelve”, said Adam. “Going into Gloria Ratchet’s office.”

  “We’re old friends, me and Gloria, go way back.”

  “You were meeting with a guy who’s got a show in development”, Adam continued. “What’s going on, Rob?”

  He looked along the row of eyes, staring at him like the glinting barrels of a firing squad. At this point, a certain type of man would be standing tall and saying: no blindfold, just one last cigarette and vive la revolution; Rob was more the bloke who’d wet himself and cry for his mummy. Oh, what the...

  “Look, there’s a chance, just a chance, a slight chance that we might get moved to a new time slot, that’s all.”

  Suddenly everyone was talking at once. He’d opened the sluice gates and they knew there was more dirty water to follow.

  “What time slot?”, asked Sally.

  “Not entirely sure yet but it’s looking like ten, possibly ten thirty, that sort of time.”

  Adam shook his head. “And then it’ll be eleven, then twelve, then middle of the night with the shopping for shit shows and the religious nutters and then we’ll be gone.”

  This was exactly the scenario that Rob foresaw but he found himself saying: “That’s a tad pessimistic, Adam.”

  “But you’ll be all right, won’t you?”, said Sally. “You’ll be over at Twelve with your new show.”

  “It’s not really a new show, not as such. Anyway, it was just an exploratory meeting, that’s all. Besides, there could be jobs for all of you lot there.”

  “ Yeah, right”, sniffed Sally.

  “No, I mean it. I’d take you all with me.” Of course he would; why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Besides, this is all rumour and gossip and speculation at the moment. The truth is... the truth is...”

  The truth, he thought, is a greasy little worm wriggling about in a big barrel of lies.

  “I don’t know what the truth is.”

  Adam put his drink down very deliberately and stood up.

  “Well, if you find out in the next hour or so we’ll be in the pub.”

  “Come on, guys”, he implored, “this is the way this fucking industry is. Didn’t they teach you that in Communication Studies?”

  But they were gone. Like the contents of Pandora’s Box, only Hope was left.

  “You not joining them? Staying on the sinking ship with the Head Rat?”

  “I suppose so. Not that you’re a rat or...”

  Rob slumped onto a chair, picked up a cocktail sausage, began to nibble. “I feel like one. Rattus rattus. Bringer of plague and despair.”

  Hope took a gulp of wine. “Actually, Rob, there was something I wanted to ask you. It’s a bit sort of personal.”

  “If it’s advice on your love life, I recommend you join a nunnery.”

  “No, no, it’s not... no, it’s more... I was talking to my mum and I mentioned...”

  She was interrupted by The Ride of the Valkyries. “Sorry”, said Rob, swallowing the rubbery sausage and answering his phone. “Hello?”

  You can tell a lot about a pub from the signs on the toilet doors. In the Railway Tavern they read: Bastards and Bastardesses. It was the sort of establishment where men who were tired of life went to order a Pimms with a slice of cucumber. Dark and its companion, dingy, were the words that sprang readily to the lips of anyone asked to describe the interior of the place. The windows only being cleaned when a strong easterly wind blew rain horizontally against them, illumination came mostly from the meretricious glow of the pokie machines. Although smoking had been banned for many years, the walls, whatever their original colour, were still the sickly browny-yellow of a diseased lung. Add the fact that the premises were a second home to the police forensic unit and the decor would probably be described in the Dulux chart as nicotine with a hint of luminol.

  Gerry stood swaying against the bar, rum in one hand, mobile in the other. A group of men in Hard Yakka stubbies eyed him with seeming suspicion from an alcove. A drunk in a kangar
oo costume was a rare sight even in the Railway Tavern.

  “Jush wanna tell you”, he slurred, “that you’re a... a... thing, a lifeshaver, a real lifeshaver. I don’t mean, you know, like those lifeshavers down at... at Bondi and Dee Why and Curl Curl and Coogee Coogee... no, no, a real lifeshaver. I was going nowhere, mate, nowhere, know what I mean? Nowhere. And then, then, you gave me that script and...”

  Tears began to trickle down Gerry’s cheek and drop into the rum. “I’m all choked up, mate. All choked up.”

  On the other end of the call, Rob could hear his rasping sniffs above the raucous thrash music coming from the pub’s sound system.

  “Yeah, well, I should be thanking you. You did a great job, great job. Look, maybe you should get an early night. You know, go to bed with a good book or someone who’s read one.”

  Gerry rubbed a furry arm over his bubbling eyes. “Jush wanted you to know, mate, thash all, just wanted you to know. I mean, if I can get a regular gig on the show ...”

  “Yeah...”

  “Anyways, I’ll let you get back to... shit, it’s the live ep tonight, isn’t it?” Gerry looked up at the Elvis clock above the bar. “Jesus, nearly the special time of 7.30. Yeah, break a leg or whatever. Be seeing you.”

  He snapped the phone shut. “Love that man”, he sniffed, “love that man.”

  Looking up, he saw three of the men in the Hard Yakka stubbies suddenly looming over him, forming a semi-circle and hemming him in against the bar. They were covered in brick dust and plaster and smelled of beer. Gerry froze. He was going to become the victim of a senseless act of violence against a minority group. Why was society so prejudiced against men who dress up as marsupials?

  The two men on his outside nodded towards the third as if egging him on. He was the biggest and broadest of them with a livid scar on his cheek and the logo of the Canterbury Bulldogs tattooed on his neck. Gerry thought back to the self-defence advice his dad had once given him: curl up in a ball and hold on to your wedding tackle. The big man reached into the inside pocket of his reflective jacket. Oh, god, thought Gerry, he’s got a knife! But, instead of a wicked blade, he produced a small, tattered notebook.

  “Can you sign this for me, mate? My daughter loves that show of yours. Absolutely fucking loves it.”

  Don’t give up the day job just yet, thought Rob as he pocketed his mobile. You may have to keep hopping for a while longer. He could, of course, give Gerry the chance to write for “Bayside Mall” if it ever got that far. But he didn’t, at that moment, want to think about “Bayside Mall”, about assembling a team, writing the series Bible, about casting, about attending interminable meetings where egos locked horns and pushed and shoved like rutting stags. And, at the end of a year’s grind, what odds would you get at the TAB of the show having a life after the first week on air? 1,000 to 1? Very generous.

  “Sorry”, he said to Hope. “You were asking me something.”

  Hope fidgeted, twisting a curl of hair round a finger.

  “Yes... I was talking to my mum the other day and I said...”

  “Coming down to the floor?”

  Leo stood framed in the doorway. The tumbrel-man come to collect the next cart-load of passengers with one-way tickets.

  “I suppose so. I’m sure my grandchildren will ask me where I was on this historic night. I want to day I was close to the action.”

  Frustrated, Hope wrinkled her nose and blew out her cheeks.

  “What were saying about your mum?”, Rob asked as they headed for the door.

  “Oh, nothing, doesn’t matter. Silly really.”

  “Where’s the rest of your gang?”, asked Leo.

  “Oh, they thought they’d watch it from the pub, suck up the atmosphere. Be like Grand Final Night down there, I’m sure.”

  They made their way down the stairs. A brains trust of engineers, mechanics and scene shifters were standing round the still wedged 4WD, scratching their heads.

  “Have you heard how Cris is doing?”

  “Stable and under sedation”, replied Leo. “Lucky bastard.”

  Legend has it that when Dom Perignon became the first person to taste champagne he called out: “Come quickly, I am drinking the stars!” When Terry had finished downing his third glass of bubbly he began singing “The Mountains of Mourne.” It had been one of Marge’s favourites.

  “Oh, Mary this London’s a wonderful sight...”, he crooned as he adjusted the blow-down cock and checked the fuse-plug on the Adcock and Perkins G-Tech 2000 Vertical Tubeless Steam Boiler. He looked along the row of valves and dials. All the needles were quivering pleasingly in the red zone.

  “... there’s people there working by day and by night.”

  In the Control Room, Scott stared at the row of monitors in much the same way that Custer must have viewed the Indians as they began to surge down the Little Big Horn. The screens showed empty, silent yet threatening sets. Any moment now, actors would walk into shot and he’d have to do something. Only he couldn’t remember what. The shooting script in front of him was no help at all as it seemed to be written in a melange of hieroglyphics, Greek and Klingon.

  “Not feeling nervous, are you, darl’?”, asked Jan, the Vision Switcher.

  By way of reply, Scott grabbed a waste paper basket and deposited his lunch in it.

  Hungry, thirsty and exhausted by her fruitless efforts to loosen her bonds, Phyllida had fallen asleep. Her head bobbed on her chest and dribble moistened the gag. In her fitful dream she was swimming across the Parramatta River pursued by a polar bear in a speedboat. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t. She was sitting bolt upright, neck aching but wide awake. The bouncy theme tune to “Rickety Street” was pumping out of the TV and Malcolm’s mellifluous tones were advising that: “Previously, on Rickety Street...”

  Phyllida’s eyes widened as she saw herself on screen. She was sitting at her desk, filling in a report form as Angus answered the phone.

  “City West Police Station, Sergeant Black speaking.”

  As Angus listened grimly, Phyllida started tugging at the ropes again. This was utterly insane. If she wasn’t there, how the hell was the show going to go on? How could her boss-eyed sister possibly hope to take her place if that was her crazy scheme?

  “Right, Thanks for letting me know.” Angus put the phone down.

  “What’s happened?”, asked on-screen Phyllida.

  “That was Long Bay Gaol. Mad Tony Frazer’s escaped.”

  The camera held on his grim, tight-lipped features before fading out....

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Continuity can be a bit of a bugger.

  Who can forget Oscar winning director Mel Gibson charging down the hill in Braveheart wielding, in rapid succession, a huge sword, a pick-axe, nothing at all, a large sword, a pick-axe and then the big sword again? But what can be done in Hollywood can be done equally badly in televisionland. After the titles finished rolling, the scene resumed in the police station and showed that Sergeant Black was, suddenly and surprisingly, sporting a very large plaster over his nose. There were also some unexplained dark spots on his shirt.

  “He’d never come back here, though, would he?”, said Police Constable White who, rather than looking at Sergeant Black, was looking sideways at the camera.

  “They don’t call him Mad Tony for nothing”, said Sergeant Black, wincing and touching the side of his obviously painful nose. “And don’t forget, at his trial, he swore revenge against all those who gave evidence against him. And you and Dr Morris were the star witnesses, Sandra.”

  To give this dramatic moment its full due, the next shot cut to a close-up of Police Constable White’s alarm. Only, for some reason, she was looking at something off to her left.

  Despite his earlier sentiments, 7.30pm on that Thursday night did turn out to be a Special Time for Rob. The ensuing half hour took on a dreamlike quality in which, like Schrodinger’s Cat - simultaneously alive and not alive- he seemed to move between different branches of real
ity. He was not a direct witness to many of the events that happened but from listening to statements and interviews he came to feel that he had viewed all that occurred from the perspective of someone having an out of body, or probably more accurately, a near death, experience.

  “What the...?”, was all he managed to say, along with many thousands of viewers across the country. He was standing with Leo and Hope and looking up at the monitor outside the set. Around them, cast and crew were also saying variations of “what the...?” and exchanging puzzled looks.

  “That’s not quite right, is it?”, said Hope.

  In contrast to Rob’s pole-axed inertia, Phyllida erupted into a seething hell-broth of fury. What was that crazy bitch doing? Ruining all the hard work she, Phyllida, had put in, that’s what she was doing. With a sudden surge of manic energy, she twisted and turned, pulling hard at the ropes that bound her arms and legs to the chair. The chair itself rocked from side to side and front to back and eventually, giving up the battle to maintain equilibrium, toppled backwards. The shortness of the fall, the thickness of the carpet and the still surging adrenaline saved her from anything worse than momentary shock. From her new perspective, Phyllida looked backwards towards the kitchen and immediately focussed on the handle of the kitchen knife jutting out from the work top. It was, as she’d terrifyingly recalled earlier, a very sharp knife.

  She dug her heels into the carpet and pushed herself backwards towards the kitchen. Her hands and arms scraped against the back of the chair and the gag made breathing difficult. But she was damned if she was going to let her sister get away with this. No bloody way!

  Standing just outside the set door, Karl filled his mouth with L’Eau des Marais, and gargled before swallowing. He thought, fleetingly, that the water had a slightly strange tinge to it but his mind was more focussed on the job ahead. Josh and Charlea shuffled up to join him, ready for their entrance. Josh ran his tongue round his lips, gulped a few times and looked horribly nervous. Karl shook his head. What an amateur! Getting his tongue pierced! Why didn’t he finish the job off and have “arsehole” tattooed on his forehead as well?