Bite The Wax Tadpole Page 22

  Bruce’s chest exploded. He flung out his arms and staggered backwards, slid down the wall and lay there.

  “Oh, my Christ, we’ve killed him!”

  The scrum picked itself up slowly. Rupert crawled behind the bar, his heroics over for the day. The camera panned in on the body as it oozed life. A bucket full of cold reality had been thrown over the frenetic farce. An innocent man had been killed. For a second, perhaps slightly more, no-one moved. Then one of the extras who’d been a road crash victim on “Neighbourhood Hospital” called out: “Quick, we need something to stench the bleeding.”

  “Staunch”, said Rob. “I think you’ll find the word is staunch.”

  “Don’t matter either way”, said Bruce, sitting up and plugging a finger into the gory bullet hole. “Not really shot.”

  Cheered by this news, Phyllida and Melissa instantly grabbed hold of each other and restarted their fight.

  “Bitch!”

  “Mad bloody cow!”

  Norman pointed to the gun on the floor. “Take two, old boy. “

  Seeing Robert bending down for the gun, Rob dived for it, sliding across the floor like the action hero he wasn’t. He grabbed it, rolled to the side and jumped to his feet. He could have been James Bond after all.

  “Sorry, Malcolm. What the hell were you thinking? There’s five years olds watch this sh...”

  He was probably going to say “show” but we will never know for at that moment his attention was taken by the entrance of Niobe ripping off her raincoat to reveal the torn and bloodstained nightdress. The gun lay limply in Rob’s hand. Malcolm grabbed it. Rob looked from the old actor to the young woman taking the top off a blue bottle and emptying powder into her mouth. Oh, Christ, decisions, bloody decisions. He ran towards Niobe.

  A couple of people ran towards the rearmed Malcolm but he pointed the gun at them and they backed off. “Thank you. Now then, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? “

  “Camera two, I think, old boy.”

  Niobe was foaming at the mouth as Rob tried to tear the bottle from her grasp. “Farewell, my love”, she bubbled. “If I can’t have you, I shall have no-one.” Their arm wrestle was brief. Rob staggered back with the bottle in his hand and some of the powder sprayed into his face. He spluttered and spat, desperate to get whatever it was away from his lips.

  “It’s icing sugar, bloody icing sugar.”

  Niobe sighed. “Of course it is. Where the bloody hell am I going to get arsenic from, eh?”

  A large restraining bolt flew off the G-Tech 2000 and smashed the champagne flute as Terry raised it to his lips for a final sip. “Bloody hell!” By now the alcohol had done its job and Terry was as anaesthetised as a newt. He knew the end would be quick but he still didn’t want to be completely compos mentis when the boiler exploded. The G-Tech 2000 was now vibrating so hard that he couldn’t make out its outline. Another bolt shot out and pinged off the wall behind Terry. Any second now and he’d be gone, just like his dad and Jimmy Cagney.

  “You take the high road and I’ll take the low road”, he began to sing. And then the bottom blew off the boiler.

  Malcolm, facing camera two, had the gun to his head again. This hadn’t been quite as straightforward as he’d hoped but the world had got his message and who needed another long drawn out farewell speech?

  “Nothing”, said Norman, standing proudly beside him, “in life so became him as the leaving of it.”

  “There he is, there he is, my old mate, Rob”.

  Malcolm shook his head. A kangaroo, a talking one at that, had wandered onto the set. Was this another figment of his diseased brain? The kangaroo was hugging the script producer and sobbing. Time to go. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  As Terry watched in drunken, open-mouthed awe the last restraining bolt flew off the G-Tech 2000. Steam spread across the floor like the escape gases of a Saturn V sitting on the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. With its bottom gone and nothing to hold it down the G-Tech 2000 could do nothing but obey Newton’s Third Law of Motion. It began to shoot rapidly upwards.

  Malcolm adjusted the angle of the barrel. He most definitely didn’t want just an extra crease in his forehead...

  Phyllida and Mellissa were rolling round on the floor in a tangle of hair pulling, face scratching and general name calling...

  Rosanna was rubbing her back up and down against a pole at the end of the bar in what a late tuning in viewer might have taken to be, well, a pole dance.

  Karl raised his head from the bar, yawned and slipped sideways onto the floor...

  Niobe vomited up a stomach full of icing sugar...

  ... and Rob was trying to disentangle himself from the embrace of a very tired and emotional kangaroo as...

  ... the floor exploded.

  It was the complete and utter disorientation that Rob most remembered afterwards. It went without saying that the situation in the studio that evening was far from normal but the sight of what appeared to be some sort of strategic missile suddenly bursting through the carpet took things into the realms of the stratospherically supranormal. The noise was ear-splitting as concrete shattered and pinged around the studio like shrapnel. People screamed and dived for cover. Malcolm pitched forward as he pulled the trigger and the bullet passed straight through Norman.

  “I say, have a care, old chap!”

  Rob found himself lying with his face buried in Greg’s pouch, his nostrils assailed by the fumes from a broken bottle of rum. He lifted his head up just in time to see the missile crash through the ceiling.

  In the Control Room, Leo watched with appalled fascination.

  “Jesus Christ, beat that for and end of episode!” Little did he know.

  Nev was somewhat disconcerted to find himself flying straight towards the studio building but his instinctive pull back on the control stick lifted the front of the chopper upwards and over the roof. Piece of cake. Isn’t that what the Spitfire boys used to say during the War? He laughed a little insanely in the way that all good theatrical villains do as their nefarious plans unfold. He’d figured that he’d fly for ten minutes which, and this was the great thing about escaping by helicopter, would take him many miles away from the studio, land and then... and then... well, he’d do some more figuring when he got there. What, of course, he hadn’t taken into account in his figuring thus far was the likelihood of a G-Tech 2000 boiler flying up at him through the studio roof and smashing into the cockpit. Which it did.

  On the set floor, people began to pick themselves up. Once more, Malcolm put the gun to his temple. God, the way things were going he’d die of old age before he could commit suicide.

  “Reminds me of a rather avant garde production of Coriolanus I was in back in the seventies”, said Norman as he picked his nails with the point of his dagger.

  There was a lot of dust and debris about and it was eerily silent. Staring up at the hole in the roof, Rob wondered about the finer points of the AWGIE rules. Clearly, the script that had gone, was going, to air was not the one that he wrote. Would he have to write a note to the Guild President explaining the situation?

  Above the studio, the helicopter exploded. Fragments of twisted metal, razor sharp Perspex and Network Executive flew out in all directions including, unfortunately for the cast and crew of Rickety Street, downwards. The last thought that passed through Rob’s mind before it all went dark was: Christ, you wouldn’t believe this is in a Dan Brown novel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  The FJ Holden purred through the Gothic entrance to Mandrax House observing strictly the 5k per hour speed limit. It was a glorious day, the sun was shining and the Aussies were 2 for 260 against South Africa. Terry wound down the window as the car drew level with an old man, flies undone, scuffing through the crisp leaves by the side of the road.

  “Morning, Arnold.”

  “Shittenfickingpricking”.

  “Yeah, too right”, agreed Terry. “Get your footy tips off you later, mate.”


  “Shittenfickingpricking Manly”.

  Terry parked neatly between the gleaming white lines in the car park, lines he’d touched up the previous day. Lightly humming the Toreador’s Song from Carmen he strolled across the closely trimmed lawn, a lawn he’d mowed the day before yesterday, and unlocked the shed marked “Maintenance”. Inside the coolness of his new domain he flicked on the kettle and spooned instant coffee into his Sydney FC mug. Yes, life was good again. After he’d recovered from the effects of being trapped under the rubble in the basement for two days with a hangover the size of Bengal, the authorities had decided that treatment rather than punishment was the order of the day. Besides, no-one could decide how much his misguided attempt at suicide-by-boiler had contributed to the destruction of the studio vis-à-vis the falling helicopter and ensuing fire. So they sent him to the Barking Institute where, during his first consultation, he’d fixed the broken drawer on Professor Winkelman’s desk and pointed out to her that the roses outside her window needed deadheading. She’d prescribed anti-depressants and a course of counselling before calling Human Resources and seeing if there were any maintenance jobs going.

  The kettle started to whistle and Terry opened the sports –stickered bar-fridge to get out the milk. Which he promptly dropped on the floor.

  “Oh, bollocks”, he said, looking down at the milky lake widening and flowing under the fridge. But he didn’t look up and he didn’t apologise.

  Charlea climbed the dark, uncarpeted stairs slowly and nervously. From the open door at the end of the corridor she could hear relaxed chatter and laughter. She’d never been to Woolloomooloo before and had had difficulty finding the Bucket of Blood pub where the rehearsals were due to take place. Late on her first day. They’d have her down as unprofessional already. But she painted on a smile and walked breezily in. The rest of the cast were sitting in a circle on uncomfortable looking plastic chairs, drinking coffee, copies of the Arden Macbeth open in front of them. Alex, the director sat at a small table to the side.

  “Sorry, sorry. Not too late, am I?”

  “I was beginning to get worried but no, you haven’t missed anything. We were about to get started on the read through. If you’d sit over there next to the girl in green we can have all the witches together.”

  “Great, Thanks.”

  Charlea smiled and mouthed hellos as she made her way to her seat. The girl in green was a quite stunning redhead who reminded Charlea of Cate Blanchett. She didn’t know who she was but if looks and poise were anything to go by she had it made already. And in this production she wasn’t going to have her looks hidden by wiry hair and warts. Alex had explained at the audition that his version of the Scottish play was going to be set in the Sixties with the witches as hippies, obtaining their visions as the result of LSD trips. They were also going to be bare breasted. Well, not entirely. They would have saltires painted on their chests. Charlea wasn’t entirely sure what a saltire was but Alex had assured her the dark blue paint would preserve her modesty should her grandmother see the production. The girl in green was staring intently at her script as Charlea sat beside her.

  “Hi, I’m Charlea.”

  The girl in green took in a breath and looked up, slowly. Her lips parted in a deliberate smile. Her opalescent eyes seemed to appraise Charlea in the way a hawk might size up a rabbit running through the corn.

  “How nice to meet you at last. Harriet. I’m playing Hecate.”

  Niobe had always loved the “Badly Foxed” Second Hand Bookshop. To her it was the Jewel in the Crown of the unfashionable end of Glebe Point Road. To enter its doors was to be enveloped in a poetic tubercular mustiness, to be drenched in a mist of shredded paper and printers’ ink, to step aboard an ark of literature and learning, of knowledge and destiny, of romance and love and death. The books were very cheap, too.

  She hadn’t been in for a while, not since the disaster at the studio, in fact. Having escaped with only minor injuries she’d taken the opportunity to take stock of her life. The thing with Rob was never going to go anywhere and neither was the novel she was writing. So she’d chucked him over and it into the bin. While she was rearranging her life she hadn’t quite felt up to reading anything more challenging than “The House at Pooh Corner” or an Agatha Christie. But now that she’d got the job at the advertising agency and taken up zumba, deep, dark, sombre literature was calling to her again. Russian literature had an alcove all to itself and she was browsing along the warped shelves when someone else squeezed into the narrow space, nearly colliding with her.

  “Sorry”, said the young man.

  “That’s all right”, she smiled. He was dark haired and good looking, bespectacled with an air of rugged intellectuality. Not that she was at all interested, of course. She shook her head and reached out to take down a copy of “Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka” just as he did. Their hands touched.

  “Sorry”, said the young man again.

  “Gogol, eh?”

  “Yes, Gogol.”

  He had a very cute smile. “Tell me to mind my own business, if you like”, she said, “but have you ever considered living on a Greek Island”

  “Mr McGuire, if you could try not to dribble too much that would be just fantastic”, said the Director. Mr McGuire sucked his dentures back into place and nodded as the pretty make-up girl touched up the beads of sweat on his forehead. If there was an upside to metastatic cancer this was it. Mr McGuire liked being a TV star. He’d even had fan mail and an offer of marriage from a woman in Darwin who assured him that a colostomy bag was no barrier to a fulfilling relationship. In fact, he thought the TV cameras were doing him more good than the medication they were constantly dripping into him. Appearing in the next episode gave him something to look forward to. He most definitely didn’t want to be the one who went next.

  “Ready? And... action!”, called the Director. Malcolm walked into shot and sat down on the edge of Mr McGuire’s bed. “Well, well, John, you’re looking much better I must say.”

  “I’m feeling much better, Thank you, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm had never presented a show before and he’d found his forte. A bit late in his career, perhaps, but he still had a few years left in him. It was ironic how close he’d been to appearing in the show rather than fronting it. The operation to remove the tumour had been a complete success and his fame, call it notoriety if you will, following the live episode debacle had made him the ideal presenter for “Who Goes Next?” which had been taken up by Channel 12. It was a new lease of life and he was determined to make the most of it.

  “I’ve just been talking to the doctors and your neutrophil count is apparently excellent.”

  “Oh that’s good. What’s neutrophils?”

  “White blood cells.” This was the bit that Malcolm particularly liked, where he went into the medical side of things like he knew what he was talking about rather than having merely learned the lines. But learning the lines at least showed that his brain was fully functioning.

  “It will have blood, they say; Blood shall have blood”, said Norman, lying on the bed beside Mr McGuire.

  Of course, there were still one or two side-effects that lingered on.

  Phyllida stood in front of the full-length mirror, her eyes travelling up and down the elegant dress that Madame Lacrosse (Paris, Milan and London) had insisted could have been designed with her expressly in mind. It was a one-shouldered chiffon evening gown with ruffle beading and a sweep train and came, Madame had assured her, in a choice of 32 colours. The price was not discussed. Phyllida just adored shopping in boutiques where none of the goods had anything as sordid as price tags on them.

  Being attacked by her cross-eyed sister and having red-hot pieces of helicopter rain down on her head had been the final straw for Phyllida. Fate was trying very hard to tell her something. That acting was not for her. She could see now that she’d had a false expectation of its glamour and sophistication. It had been a way of escape that turned out to be going now
here.

  She’d suffered more injuries from Melissa’s assault than from the studio disaster but it was while she was in emergency that fate had stepped in. She’d got talking to an elegantly dressed lady, Sarah, who’d been brought in following a minor car crash. Sarah had bruised some ribs but told Phyllida that she was more worried about the Ferrari, her pride and joy. It turned out that, quite amazingly, Sarah had once been an actress, too but had since found her true vocation, a job which took her all over the world, one where her stage craft came in very handy. “And what might that be?”, Phyllida had enquired.

  Her mobile rang and Phyllida left off her consideration of the gown to answer it.

  “Hello there”, said a husky male voice with a Scottish accent. “Is that Antoinette? I was given your number by a pal. Only I’m coming down to London on business next week and I might be in need some company, if you get my drift.”

  “But of course. Are we talking accompanying you to business dinners or something more intimate later in the evening or both?”

  “Well”, said the husky voice, “that all depends. What are your rates?”

  Melissa stood in front of the mirror and looked herself straight in the eye. Well, eyes, really. She still found it strange that she had never noticed anything wrong with them and odder still that no-one had ever mentioned it. It was only when she’d read the papers in the aftermath of the studio disaster and found herself referred to as the “psychopathic, cross-eyed sister from hell” that she realised that her pupils led independent existences. And now, following a simple operation, they didn’t. Maybe that was the cause of all her “issues” all along. It certainly explained a lot of her trouble with men. When they’d gazed into her eyes after a romantic dinner she’d be seemingly more interested in what was on the dessert trolley. Now, she was looking forward to starting all over again, the only fly in the muesli being incarcerated in a secure hospital until the trial. But her lawyer had assured her that her chances of being released into the community were excellent. Her sister had disappeared so wouldn’t be around to testify with regard to the kidnapping and what else had she done really?