Bite The Wax Tadpole Read online

  On the Bowlo Set, Malcolm sat at a corner table underneath a banner saying: Thursday Night Is Karaoke Night, $100 First Prize.” He was talking on his mobile. He was also very aware of the heavy weight in his jacket pocket.

  “Just calm down, Mrs Smeeton, a rectal temperature of 38 degrees is nothing to worry about. Come and see me in the office in the morning.”

  As he ended the call, the door opened and in came Josh and Charlea. From his position, Malcolm could clearly see them but they couldn’t see him as they crossed to the bar where Fred was serving.

  “An orange juice and a light beer, please”, said Josh. He was overcompensating badly and the voice that came out of his metal filled mouth sounded like Eliza Doolittle on valium.

  “Er yeah”, said Fred, somewhat thrown. “Coming up like a rash on a baby’s arse.” He winced ever so slightly. “You... you here for the karaoke?”

  “You bet. We have been practising since the last one.”

  Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, Rob reassured himself, you’re not responsible for actors breaking their noses, going cross-eyed or delivering their lines in an eccentric fashion. Not your responsibility at all. Still...

  Phyllida had painfully pushed herself into the kitchen and was looking up at the handle of the knife. She tried to right the chair by throwing herself forward but only ended up falling backwards again and cracking her elbows on the floor. She was tired, covered in a muck sweat and desperately wanted to pee. Maybe she should just give up, go back to sleep and wet herself. And wake up to find Melissa standing over her with the knife in her hand? Bugger that! She kicked out, aiming upwards at the knife handle. She missed and fell painfully back again. But all those hours of yoga and pilates paid off and, at the next attempt, her big toe connected with the handle and sent the knife flipping backwards. Up it flew, curving into what seemed a slow motion arc, turning over and over before, as Isaac Newton would have predicted, heading back towards the centre of the Earth. Unfortunately for Phyllida, her head seemed to be between the knife and the Earth’s core. With a desperate gasp she rolled her head to the side. Thunk! The knife dug into the pine floor and quivered next to her ear.

  As Josh and Charlea took their drinks to a table, Malcolm came up behind them.

  “I thought I told you you were grounded.”

  Charlea spun round. “Uncle Max!”

  “Thought I was at the Ethics Committee Meeting tonight, did you? Well, I’m afraid it was cancelled.”

  “Please, Uncle Max, Brodie and I are in the karaoke competition and I need that hundred bucks.”

  “I’m sorry, my girl, but I gave you fair warning and I don’t make idle threats, you know that. Now get yourself home.”

  “But Uncle Max...”

  She took in a breath, cocked her head to one side and looked into Malcolm’s face as she spread her hands imploringly before her.

  “The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath...”

  Just a bloody minute, thought Rob, people are going to think I wrote this. Well, they’ll know it’s Shakespeare but they’ll think I had a brain spasm. Christ!

  Having recovered from his nervous start (and covered the evidence with a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald), Scott was beginning to get to grips with the task at hand. The shakes had stopped and the shooting script had transformed itself back into English. He was calling the shots again. And then Charlea started speaking.

  “It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

  He looked at the shooting script. He turned the page over. He turned back.

  “It is mightiest in the mightiest; It better becomes the throned monarch than his crown.”

  “Why haven’t I got this amendment?”, he screamed. Behind him, Jan switched cameras and carried on as best she could.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  By turning on her side, Phyllida could manoeuvre the chair until the ropes securing her wrists began to slide against the knife. As the knife began to cut and the rope to fray she became aware that someone - - it sounded like Charlea – was reciting Portia’s speech from the Merchant of Venice. What the hell was going on?

  “His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway.”

  Nev Beale sniffed a line of white powder up his left nostril. There was something vaguely familiar about the dialogue coming from the giant plasma screen. Of course, there should be something familiar – he’d read the script but this was weird. She sounded like someone for whom English was a second, a distant second, language. Across the desk from him Bergkamp and Cruyff sniffed and put away their credit cards.

  “I am thinking”, said Bergkamp, “that this is Shakepseare.”

  The girl, thought Malcolm, has either gone completely mad or she’s on something. The reactions he was giving to his niece’s pleading that they’d worked on in rehearsals didn’t seem to quite fit in with the impassioned oratory now at work in front of him. Not that it mattered, of course. In a few minutes’ time Charlea’s speech would be utterly forgotten.

  “It is an attribute to God himself, And like earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.”

  Malcolm gave her the required beat before delivering the totally inadequate reply: “Okay then, just this once but be back home by nine.”

  Charlea threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Uncle Max.”

  “Did I ever tell you”, said Norman, popping out from behind Charlea’s shoulder, “that I toured New Zealand as Shylock? Marvellous reviews in the Otago Times, marvellous.”

  The Channel Chopper’s descent into the studio grounds was watched with great interest by a number of people. One of them was an ex-glue sniffer lying on his back in a nearby park who was convinced that all helicopters were tools of the World Government piloted by lizards in human shape. He is totally irrelevant to the story.

  The people in the van opposite the studio entrance were, on the other hand, very relevant. It was a plain black van with blacked out windows. The driver and front seat passenger seat, both dressed in black coveralls, watched intently as the chopper dipped behind the studio buildings. The driver made a note of the time in a log. Behind him, six others, similarly black coveralled, prepared to go to work.

  Nev, Bergkamp and Cruyff, whose relevance to the story is well-established watched from Nev’s office window, saw the helicopter hover and land and the pilot climb out of the cabin carrying a large hold-all.

  “Time to go, gents”, said Nev.

  In the bushes, a relevant gardener whispered into a radio transmitter. The message was received in the black van whose black coveralled passengers were now wearing baseball caps with “Police” written in large, white, assertive letters on them. As the van took off in a wheel-spinning arc towards the security barrier, the police officer in the passenger seat opened the window and stuck a flashing blue light onto the roof. They were immediately joined by a line of marked cars that swept around the corner. From the window of the Security Hut, Craig stared at the line of police vehicles that had appeared at the barrier as if from nowhere. “Do you have an app...”

  “Open the fucking barrier. Now!”

  “Fair enough.”

  Nev Beale, Cruyff and Bergkamp strolled out into the evening sunshine as the lazy grey shadows of the studio lengthened across the car park. The heat had gone out of the day and they were in a pharmaceutically relaxed mood. The helicopter pilot zigzagged between the parked cars towards them.

  “G’day, Vince”, said Nev. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, no probs”, replied Vince handing over the holdall.

  Cruyff flipped open the boot of the 4WD. Nev dropped the bag inside and Bergkamp unzipped it. It was packed with tightly taped plastic bags.

  “Excellent”, declared Bergkamp.

  “Bollocks!”, declared Vince. Over B
ergkamp’s shoulder he’d seen the approaching flashing lights and, well aware that the cargo he’d picked up from the Dutch freighter off the Heads did not contain tulip bulbs or spheres of Edam, he felt it was a good time to panic. He set off at a sprint back towards the chopper. The others turned and saw the cause of his sudden departure.

  “Shit!”

  “Godverdomme!”

  “Klootzak!”

  The Dutchmen scrambled into the car leaving the boot open. Nev found himself looking desperately between the approaching cops and the holdall. As the car’s engine roared into life, he grabbed the bag and, clutching it to his chest, started running in the direction of the studio, vaguely aware that Vince was being rugby tackled by one of the gardeners.

  The black 4WD screeched, squealed and roared away with Ruud at the wheel. It fishtailed round the end of the line of cars and roared up the hill towards the exit. Finding his way blocked by a sideways-on patrol car Ruud bumped onto the grass, headed towards the fence and accelerated. Had the Dutchmen been stuntmen in a Hollywood movie they would have smashed through the fence and led the cops on a merry chase through the city traffic. As it was, the fence held firm, the front of the car crumpled and the air-bags inflated holding them firmly in place to await the arrival of the pursuing police. It was an ignominious end for Bergkamp and Cruyff but the chase did distract the cops long for Nev to scramble in through the back door of the studio.

  Rob looked sympathetically at Leo who was looking the colour of a decommissioned minesweeper. He was in the position of the football coach who has to pace the sidelines while the goals mounted up against his team.

  On the monitor, the rather odd Phyllida was sitting at a table with Malcolm.

  “Thank you for warning me, Constable, but I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. Even Mad Tony isn’t mad enough to come back here.”

  Cut to a corner of the bar where a hooded figure sipped a beer. Mad Tony.

  The transmission cut to a news update and the AD called out: “Okay, relax everybody. First commercial break. Two minutes people, two minutes.”

  “This is the biggest fucking disaster since the Titanic”, groaned Leo.

  “Really? I quite liked that movie”, said Hope.

  While the rest of the cast dashed off to the loo or took a glug of water, Josh found a quiet spot at the dark end of the studio. He sounded ridiculous and he knew it. All his friends would be out there laughing at him, especially the morons who had persuaded him to get his tongue pierced. Bastards. And how was he supposed to sing karaoke with all that ironmongery in his gob? He poked out his tongue, grabbed hold of the metal spike and pulled and twisted. Bloody thing wouldn’t move. He stamped his feet and cursed and swore. And then he noticed the carpenter’s toolbox lying unattended in the corner. He opened it up and there was a pair of pliers...

  Down in the basement, Terry’s eyes were swimming about like a pair of flounders with fin-rot as he downed the last of the champagne. The boiler was now beginning to shake and rattle. Red lights pulsed. An alarm whooped. Terry turned his eyes upwards.

  “Put the kettle on, luv, I’ll be up in a minute or two.”

  Had Terry possessed X-ray vision, his upward glance would have revealed a props department full of police officers running hither and yon in search of the fugitive Nev Beale. And if he’d glanced off to his right he’d have seen the cast and crew taking deep communal breaths ready for Act Two.

  The AD held up three fingers and counted them in: 3-2-1...

  The swelling scene returned with Fred holding a microphone. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, our next contestants are Brodie and Tamsin.”

  A smattering of applause greeted Josh and Charlea as they held hands and made their way onto the club’s tiny stage. At great expense, the network had gained permission for them to perform “You’re The One That I Want” from “Grease”. As choreographed by the bloke in wardrobewho’d formerly been a dresser at the Australian National Ballet they stared into each other’s eyes and swayed into their dance routine as the music started. Josh, with unexpected clarity, sang of his multiplying chills and impending loss of control before Charlea told him, in no uncertain terms, that he’d better shape up because she needed a man. All the right notes were hit and all the dance moves made with precision. It was an “X Factor” winning performance. Until, that is, it came to the “ooh ooh ooh” bit.

  On the third “ooh” blood spat from Josh’s mouth and straight into Charlea’s face. The collective gasp from the actors on set could be heard above the music and one of the extras fainted as Josh continued to sing and spray type O over the unfortunate Charlea. Shocked and disgusted as she was, she stuck to her recent resolution to show the world that she could act by carrying on in the grand tradition though she did turn slightly away from the direct line of fire.

  In the set storage area, the police had all the exits covered. They were sure their man was in here somewhere. “Come on out, Mr Beale”, a sergeant shouted. “The place is totally surrounded.”

  Nev had flattened himself between two flimsy walls of the “Kitchen Cock-Ups” show. From this vantage point he could see the cops through a hole in the plywood. He could also see the wedged 4WD with its open door and keys in the ignition. Taking his inspiration from a trick he’d once seen in an episode of “Bonanza”, he carefully picked up a discarded bolt and flung it over the tops of the fake walls towards the far end of the storage area. It landed with a satisfying thud and the sergeant motioned his squad to move towards the sound, which they did in the manner of hunters tracking a buffalo through long grass. Equally stealthily, Nev eased himself out of his hidey-hole and tiptoed towards the car.

  As the song came to its end astute viewers could just make out the St John’s Ambulance Officer crawling along the floor and checking the pulse of the extra who’d fainted at the sight of Josh’s blood spray.

  With perfect timing the two singers swung towards each other, both agreeing that the other was the one that they wanted. The final note died and there they were, framed in a close-up, two young lovers their faces covered in vivid, dripping blood.

  Already, furious calls were being fielded by the Channel switchboard. This current fad for vampirism was all very well but was this really suitable for younger viewers?

  Unaware of the dramas – scripted, unscripted and criminal - happening close by, the audience for “Celebrity Shockers” had been warmed-up, told when to laugh and when to applaud and were now thoroughly enjoying themselves especially when they looked up at the monitor and saw their own faces. Their fame would last considerably less than Andy Warhol’s estimate but, hey, things had moved on since the sixties. At the beginning of the show, the Genial Host had done a double-take when the curtain hiding the star prize from the contestants had opened to reveal a tall, smiling blonde in a sequined dress holding up the glossy brochure for a 4WD instead of the real thing but the producer had whispered “oops, sorry, explain later” into his ear-piece and he’d carried on seamlessly.

  “Okay, Marcia”, said the Genial Host, addressing the part-time dog washer from Penrith who had been chosen as one of the lucky contestants. “The next question is: what is the capital of Guatemala? The capital of Guatemala. Now which of our celebrities is a bit of geographer, do you think?”

  Marcia looked along the row of celebrities opposite her, some of whom she’d actually heard of. She dismissed the cricketer’s wife, the overweight DJ, the former winner of a cooking show and the disgraced ex-MP which left her with the bloke who did the movie reviews. “I’ll go with David, please.”

  “Okay, David”, said the Genial Host, “much of a movie industry in Guatemala?”

  “Actually, there was a very interesting documentary a few years ago about of group of Guatemalan prostitutes who formed a five-a-side soccer team. I should know it... no, it’s gone.”

  “You’ll kick yourself, David – it’s Guatemala City.”

  “Oh!”

  “So it’s another 35 volts for Davi
d, please, Lara.”

  The audience clapped and cheered as the glamorous Lara, teeth twinkling, décolletage grinning sideways, pulled a lever on the control panel and 35 volts shot through the wires attached to David’s index finger. Whoever said being a celebrity was all cakes and ale?

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Nev slid the holdall into the passenger seat, climbed gingerly into the driver’s seat and reached for the ignition key.

  One of the solutions to their problem which had not occurred to the Brains Trust was to accelerate at full speed, slam into reverse and repeat the process until the 4WD freed itself. This, however, was Nev’s only option. And, to give credit where it is deserved, it worked. On the discredit side, however, there were the smashed headlights, the dented body work and the collateral damage caused by falling scaffolding and scenery. All that mattered to Nev, though, was that he was moving.

  The noise brought the police hurrying back but the roaring vehicle and the falling scaffolding and scenery sent them hurriedly jumping for cover. Like a rat in a tunnel there was only one way for Nev to go and that was towards the doors in front of him. Still crazed by drugs and the thought of imminent arrest, he laughed hysterically as he gunned the engine and smashed into the doors which buckled and flew off their hinges. His world turned white as the air bag deployed but he kept his foot on the accelerator.