End Games
William Thurl
GBP 8,90
GBP 5,99
Format: 13,5 X 21,5
Number of Pages: 44
ISBN: 978-3-99064-237-5
Release Date: 11.04.2018
A fascinating 'Holiday-read' of beautifully-illustrated short stories about people both ordinary and famous, such as Abraham Lincoln and Mahatma Gandhi. The pieces show a particular insight and a gripping common theme.
THERE’S SOMEONE TO SEE YOU
– A very important matter, you say? Yes, I see. The thing is, we don’t normally like to disturb him. Well, he’s such a busy man, he works so hard and he gets so little time off to himself, you know, with his family, or to come out like this and relax. – Still, if it’s important, like you say. There’s an interval coming up shortly and I’m sure I can persuade him to give you a few minutes of his time. Right, if you’ll come this way. I’ll have to announce you first, of course. He always likes to know who he’s talking to – so he can call you by your first name and put you at your ease right away. You’re an actor, you say? That’s interesting – he’ll enjoy talking to you – he’s fascinated by the theatre, as I’m sure you know. – Yes, it’s along here. If you’d just wait outside a moment, I’ll announce you … Thank you … Mr. President, there’s someone to see you. May I present Mr. John Wilkes Booth?
THE WATERS OF BABYLON
Harris opened his eyes and saw the vision once more. Fields of green and yellow, birds wheeling in a sky of deepest blue, and above, the greatest of wonders, a sun of fiery gold. He breathed it in, drank it,
absorbed it – that blessed memory that he was able to create with ever-diminishing frequency as the power source of his image-generator slowly drained. He sighed. He had to turn it off now, or next time the magic would not appear at all. He pressed the button and was once more alone in a harsh brown
desert, beneath two lowering red suns. Why had he come here those many years ago? He had all but lost track of time, but he could still remember those fantastic tales of nuggets of gold, big as thrushes’
eggs, that you could pick up out of the sand. All lies, of course, and the biggest one told to him by the man who sold him the spaceship, that heap of junk that lay wrecked and twisted on entry into this hostile atmosphere so many years ago. He looked around him once more and saw that he was still alone. Slowly he sank to the ground, and, beneath his space helmet, the tears welled up in his eyes and, gently, he wept.
AFTERNOON TEA
– Another cup of tea, Miss Wilson? It is a very distinctive taste, isn’t it? I got it on my last trip, to India – such an interesting country, so many fascinating things to discover there … of course, it’s usually you and Michael going away on those weekend business meetings, so I thought, why don’t I go somewhere really interesting, instead of waiting around here, feeling sorry for myself? – It was so nice of you to bring those papers round for Michael … I’m sure he’s around somewhere … I’m sure he’d love to see you and
thank you personally … – Did I tell you about Bombay? I found this strange little shop – the man told me so many interesting things I didn’t know about myself, and Michael, and you … and he sold me that tea as well, you know. I remember now, Michael had some earlier, and he said exactly the same as you – he must be lying down now, I don’t think it agreed with him. – Oh, Miss Wilson, you’ve gone quite pale – I’m sure you’ll be better soon if you just drink your tea …
FRINGE BENEFITS
Is that thing working now? O.K., I’ll tell you the story. Stupid, really. But that’s what I’ve always been – a sucker for a pretty face and a good pair of legs. And to think it all started with a haircut … I saw this fancy new Salon “Curl up and Dye” – God, I shouldn’t laugh, it hurts so much … but they had a gentlemen’s salon as well, so I went in, and there she was – dark hair, sweet smile and a figure
you would kill for. Most expensive hair-cut I’ve ever had … Pretty soon I was dating her, taking her out to fancy places I couldn’t afford, so she said: “Why don’t we stage a burglary, break open the safe – easy money?”. Except when I got there, there he was, working on the accounts, so I had to bash him with the table-lamp, to stop him hitting the alarm button … please, I’m feeling weak, you’ve got
to get me help … I got the safe open. I should have thought – how did an ordinary employee know the combination? – but she wasn’t that. I knew it when she came in with the gun in her hand – only she
didn’t know that I’d taken her husband’s gun out of the desk-drawer – we must have fired together; she’s dead, I think, and I’m going fast … I’ll be dead too by the time your people get here – God, she still
looks great, even like that, her legs, her figure, her face, and her lovely black hair …
GOLDEN BOY
The man looked down at the boy in his arms and spoke. “I’m so proud of you, son. You’ve always been so good, so keen to do well, such a good son. I tried to bring you up in the right way, because
one day you would have all the responsibilities I’ve had for so long.” The man paused and clasped the boy to him, trying to stay dryeyed. He continued, “It was hard, all those years, to trust others with
your education – I could watch how you grew, got stronger, faster, wiser and learned all that I thought you would one day need. Noone could outrun, outhunt or outshoot you, and I was so proud.”
The man looked out over his land for which he had so lovingly prepared the grown boy in his arms.
“Your mother and I knew you would be the best ever, no-one could have taken my place other than you. And our happiness was complete, it seemed, when you fell in love. We loved your chosen one like our own daughter, and prepared for your Wedding Day with joy in our hearts.” The man turned and faced his wife – she moved towards him, but he waved her away anxiously. “And then she got sick. We hired the best physicians in all the land, tried all we could, and yet she died; how it broke my heart to
hear your grief, and then you said “If you love me, Father, why do you never hold me or hug me?” And before I could stop you, you were in my arms, and now you are as cold as your beloved.” The sun glinted on the young man’s forehead. A tear rolled down his father’s cheek at last, and, absently, he brushed
it away with his hand. He looked and saw a golden pearl, perfectly formed, in his hand. “I loved you so much. But it’s a terrible thing, never being able to touch the ones you love, when your name is King Midas.”
A MURDER OF CROWS
Language has always fascinated me. English seems to delight in throwing up colourful and unusual-sounding expressions, which are sometimes so apt, and yet at other times seem bizarre and out of place, to the point of incomprehensibility. Why, for example, do we talk of “an Exaltation of larks”? Is their song to the Immortal Deity so perfect in sound and pitch, so divine in essence? Or is it just a cacophonous disjointed cawing that makes you want to cover your ears to shut out the sound?
And what about “an Unkindness of ravens”? An unattractive bird, perhaps, but those who flock daily, year after year, to the Tower of London, clicking cameras held keenly at the ready, are glad that these guests, kind or not, are content to reside there, ensuring this sceptred isle remains safe and free.
My least favourite expression, though, is “a Murder of crows”. Why? Thereby, as they say in the best literary circles, hangs a tale … Did you ever see Hitchcock’s film “The Birds”? Do you remember
the end, where Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren leave the house? The birds are now quiet, their victory won, their superiority over Man proven, following their ferocious attacks of the previous day and night.
But do you ever see birds like that in real life? I do. As you drive along the A1, coming to a slip-road, there they are – great distended bodies, beaks like yellow pneumatic drills, waddling their way along by
the side of the road – no doubt the hammer of unceasing traffic has driven the dazed worms to the surface of the grass in the adjoining fields, making them easy prey for the black assassins.But I digress from my tale. Some years ago I spent a very pleasant fortnight in Crete – lots of sun, idle swimming and plenty of Ouzo – or was it Retsina? Probably both, if truth be told. During my stay I made the acquaintance of a charming couple. Their name was Castle, Cyril and Cynthia. Remarkably, if you have a keen awareness of alliteration, her maiden name had been Crook: with all these names beginning with ‘C’, perhaps it was not surprising that he was a keen Chess player, much given to punning on the words
‘Castle’ and ‘Rook’. We played one night and I narrowly beat him. “You must come down to visit us in our ‘castle’ when we’re back home. I mean to have my revenge”, said Cyril after the game. I could only
agree, and shortly after my return home, I phoned them for directions to their secluded cottage, deep in the heart of Gloucestershire. I set off in good time on the day. The weather was fair in the morning,
but as I journeyed westward, clouds at first wispy and yellow became thick, white, and then a sullen shade of grey. As I turned off the main road onto a rutted farm-track, rain began to spit gently against my windscreen. Approaching the cottage, I became aware of a number of black crows perched on telegraph wires, poles, the house itself. Apart from their occasional rustling no other sound acknowledged my arrival. My cry of greeting was stifled in my throat as I saw the front door wide open. I lurched from the car and ran for all I was worth into the house. I knew, somehow, what it was I would find. The lifeless bodies of Cyril and Cynthia Castle lay on the floor of their living-room – their hands and faces pecked and bleeding, their clothes torn to shreds. But, worst of all, where once had been their eyes, were now only four sightless sockets. I have no recollection of how I got out of there. My stomach was heaving, my head was spinning. I drove away as fast as I could through now torrential rain, until I had put safe distance between myself and that sight I shall never forget. I wish the rain could have washed it from
my mind, but it could not. So if you mention “an Exaltation of larks”, I will smile wanly. “An Unkindness of ravens” will even cause me to laugh aloud. But please, please, don’t ever speak in my presence of “a Murder of crows”.
THOSE WHO CAN, DO
“When are you coming to bed? I don’t know why you spend all those hours marking those stupid books – if they were going to give you that promotion, you would have been Head of Department years ago.
What chance do you think you’ve got now, at your age?” Gilbert Jenkins sighed inwardly and tried to shut out the screeching voice of his wife Myra – always the same complaints, born of frustration
and contempt for the gentle soul to whom she had wedded herself such a long time ago, just to spite her mother – that clinging possessive drudge, who had tried to hold on to her with limpet-like tenacity, her
own husband having walked out one day to buy a packet of cigarettes and never come back.
Gilbert knew his wife wasn’t really a bad woman, but the cumulative effect of years of her nagging and complaining made something snap at last inside him. “For God’s sake, shut up!” he cried. “How dare you, you pathetic worm?” she screeched back at him. The red mist descended, his hands went round her throat, and squeezed, squeezed until the screeches became squawks, then gurgles, then nothing …
“Well, have any of your little darlings written anything worth all the hours you spend reading it all?” Myra asked sarcastically. Gilbert turned the exercise-book over and read the name of Philip Carter, Form 11b.
An imaginative boy, with a keen mind and some interesting ideas which he was able to convey quite vividly on paper. Gilbert made a mental note about the follow-up homework to be set the next day. What
should the essay title be? Ah, yes: “Getting away with Murder”.
MAN IN A SUITCASE
“Yes, it’s quite a nice turnout really. I’m surprised so many people came. Well, he was such a miserable devil these last few years – no interest in anything or anyone. I mean, you’d ask him out, or say “How are you?”, and there’d be no response, just that sort of wooden stare … Yes, thank you so much for coming, I’m sure my brother would have appreciated it … Where was I? Yes, I mean, of course, it was a terrible shock for him when his wife died, but it’s not as if they were a double act, what with her singing and him being a ventriloquist … Yes, Goodbye, Vicar, thank you so much – it was a lovely service, everyone said so… But all the life seemed to go out of him – he’d just spend hours on end in his room, talking to that damn dummy, Hugo. In the end, you couldn’t get a word out of him at all – he’d just stare at you with those empty eyes … ”. McGill awoke. It had been a long while since Hugo had come to open
the case and let him see daylight, if you call the yellow glow of a 40-watt bulb in a dingy room daylight. McGill was sure something must have happened to Hugo. He was bitter and cunning, crazy, even, at times, but his own continued existence outside, as well as McGill’s, required him to open the case every so often so that his awkward wooden frame could be lifted out and their sybaritic existence could be prolonged once more. It was so lonely and cramped inside the case. McGill thought he would try and sleep again. It would pass the time. He felt it would be a long wait.
FADE TO BLACK
Artie Roberts was the best. In his thirty-plus years in the lighting business, for stage and screen, he’d been told it often enough; by directors seeking to gain an Oscar for the film on the technical side,
by ambitious and established stars, keen to increase their reputations, the size of their next pay packet and their own chances of an Oscar. He could make the ugliest duckling look good; “Artie, you could take twenty years off Norma Desmond”, Zanuck had once told him; Artie’s only regret was that he had never had the chance – someone else had had a field day with the lighting effects in ‘Sunset Boulevard’, before he had established himself as ‘The Best’. No regrets and no real ambitions or feelings – till Liz arrived. Suddenly he was the object of flattery, mild flirting at first, accompanied by a tinkling laugh and admiring smiles that sent his head spinning. She was dark and striking, though lacking the classical grace of a Bette Davis, the steely gaze of a Barbara Stanwyck or the like. She wasn’t an actress – she came one day when he was working on some spy thriller in the heat of Spain. The Director brought her over and said: “This is Liz, my goddaughter – she wants to learn the film business – teach her everything you know, huh?”. And with that he turned away – one, no, two problems solved, while he went to cajole a highly-strung and highly-sexed star from her pills or dalliance in her trailer with her current leading man, out onto the heat of the set. Liz asked questions and learned quickly; she nodded as Artie
passed on, happily, the secrets he had learned through his years of experience. For Artie, it was like bathing in warm sunshine all the time – she seemed to be interested not just in all his knowledge, but
in him – the way she sometimes leant over him, touched his arm oh so accidentally, laughed at his occasional jokes. She was over twentyfive years younger than him, but what does age or common-sense matter where love is concerned? Artie blinked as he peered through the steam. The memories of
what came next made him more determined, though his eyes smarted as involuntary tears almost began to flow. At last Artie resolved to ask her out on a date. And then – who knew? But he realised he was in love and had found at last a woman who needed him and valued him for himself, it seemed. He glanced at the ledge and saw that what he had prepared was ready. Painfully he thought back to
the humiliation that had brought him where he was now. “Oh Artie, don’t be silly! You could be my father – I couldn’t go out with a little man like you – you’re nearly bald, for Heaven’s sake! I’m engaged to that cameraman, Vincenzo, I thought everybody knew! I’m sorry, but, oh, it’s too ridiculous!”. And with that she clacked off on high heels, laughing out loud – she had to tell Vincenzo, it really was too ridiculous, that silly little man … Well, he’d show her and her godfather the Director and Vincenzo and all of them – next time they needed Artie Roberts to make someone look good, they’d remember this day … He reached for the cut-throat razor on the ledge beside the bath. Yes, now, before the water cooled too much, then he could painlessly feel his shame and his life seep away into a warm sea where there was
no more pain. He checked the scene once more – the steam thinning now, the scene clearly visible, had there been any spectator to see. Quickly now, two strokes: left hand, right wrist, right hand, left wrist,
and it was done. The razor slipped into the reddening water beside him. As he drifted into unconsciousness he noted the final stage directions of the scene – soft focus, gentle fade to black, … rideau.
– A very important matter, you say? Yes, I see. The thing is, we don’t normally like to disturb him. Well, he’s such a busy man, he works so hard and he gets so little time off to himself, you know, with his family, or to come out like this and relax. – Still, if it’s important, like you say. There’s an interval coming up shortly and I’m sure I can persuade him to give you a few minutes of his time. Right, if you’ll come this way. I’ll have to announce you first, of course. He always likes to know who he’s talking to – so he can call you by your first name and put you at your ease right away. You’re an actor, you say? That’s interesting – he’ll enjoy talking to you – he’s fascinated by the theatre, as I’m sure you know. – Yes, it’s along here. If you’d just wait outside a moment, I’ll announce you … Thank you … Mr. President, there’s someone to see you. May I present Mr. John Wilkes Booth?
THE WATERS OF BABYLON
Harris opened his eyes and saw the vision once more. Fields of green and yellow, birds wheeling in a sky of deepest blue, and above, the greatest of wonders, a sun of fiery gold. He breathed it in, drank it,
absorbed it – that blessed memory that he was able to create with ever-diminishing frequency as the power source of his image-generator slowly drained. He sighed. He had to turn it off now, or next time the magic would not appear at all. He pressed the button and was once more alone in a harsh brown
desert, beneath two lowering red suns. Why had he come here those many years ago? He had all but lost track of time, but he could still remember those fantastic tales of nuggets of gold, big as thrushes’
eggs, that you could pick up out of the sand. All lies, of course, and the biggest one told to him by the man who sold him the spaceship, that heap of junk that lay wrecked and twisted on entry into this hostile atmosphere so many years ago. He looked around him once more and saw that he was still alone. Slowly he sank to the ground, and, beneath his space helmet, the tears welled up in his eyes and, gently, he wept.
AFTERNOON TEA
– Another cup of tea, Miss Wilson? It is a very distinctive taste, isn’t it? I got it on my last trip, to India – such an interesting country, so many fascinating things to discover there … of course, it’s usually you and Michael going away on those weekend business meetings, so I thought, why don’t I go somewhere really interesting, instead of waiting around here, feeling sorry for myself? – It was so nice of you to bring those papers round for Michael … I’m sure he’s around somewhere … I’m sure he’d love to see you and
thank you personally … – Did I tell you about Bombay? I found this strange little shop – the man told me so many interesting things I didn’t know about myself, and Michael, and you … and he sold me that tea as well, you know. I remember now, Michael had some earlier, and he said exactly the same as you – he must be lying down now, I don’t think it agreed with him. – Oh, Miss Wilson, you’ve gone quite pale – I’m sure you’ll be better soon if you just drink your tea …
FRINGE BENEFITS
Is that thing working now? O.K., I’ll tell you the story. Stupid, really. But that’s what I’ve always been – a sucker for a pretty face and a good pair of legs. And to think it all started with a haircut … I saw this fancy new Salon “Curl up and Dye” – God, I shouldn’t laugh, it hurts so much … but they had a gentlemen’s salon as well, so I went in, and there she was – dark hair, sweet smile and a figure
you would kill for. Most expensive hair-cut I’ve ever had … Pretty soon I was dating her, taking her out to fancy places I couldn’t afford, so she said: “Why don’t we stage a burglary, break open the safe – easy money?”. Except when I got there, there he was, working on the accounts, so I had to bash him with the table-lamp, to stop him hitting the alarm button … please, I’m feeling weak, you’ve got
to get me help … I got the safe open. I should have thought – how did an ordinary employee know the combination? – but she wasn’t that. I knew it when she came in with the gun in her hand – only she
didn’t know that I’d taken her husband’s gun out of the desk-drawer – we must have fired together; she’s dead, I think, and I’m going fast … I’ll be dead too by the time your people get here – God, she still
looks great, even like that, her legs, her figure, her face, and her lovely black hair …
GOLDEN BOY
The man looked down at the boy in his arms and spoke. “I’m so proud of you, son. You’ve always been so good, so keen to do well, such a good son. I tried to bring you up in the right way, because
one day you would have all the responsibilities I’ve had for so long.” The man paused and clasped the boy to him, trying to stay dryeyed. He continued, “It was hard, all those years, to trust others with
your education – I could watch how you grew, got stronger, faster, wiser and learned all that I thought you would one day need. Noone could outrun, outhunt or outshoot you, and I was so proud.”
The man looked out over his land for which he had so lovingly prepared the grown boy in his arms.
“Your mother and I knew you would be the best ever, no-one could have taken my place other than you. And our happiness was complete, it seemed, when you fell in love. We loved your chosen one like our own daughter, and prepared for your Wedding Day with joy in our hearts.” The man turned and faced his wife – she moved towards him, but he waved her away anxiously. “And then she got sick. We hired the best physicians in all the land, tried all we could, and yet she died; how it broke my heart to
hear your grief, and then you said “If you love me, Father, why do you never hold me or hug me?” And before I could stop you, you were in my arms, and now you are as cold as your beloved.” The sun glinted on the young man’s forehead. A tear rolled down his father’s cheek at last, and, absently, he brushed
it away with his hand. He looked and saw a golden pearl, perfectly formed, in his hand. “I loved you so much. But it’s a terrible thing, never being able to touch the ones you love, when your name is King Midas.”
A MURDER OF CROWS
Language has always fascinated me. English seems to delight in throwing up colourful and unusual-sounding expressions, which are sometimes so apt, and yet at other times seem bizarre and out of place, to the point of incomprehensibility. Why, for example, do we talk of “an Exaltation of larks”? Is their song to the Immortal Deity so perfect in sound and pitch, so divine in essence? Or is it just a cacophonous disjointed cawing that makes you want to cover your ears to shut out the sound?
And what about “an Unkindness of ravens”? An unattractive bird, perhaps, but those who flock daily, year after year, to the Tower of London, clicking cameras held keenly at the ready, are glad that these guests, kind or not, are content to reside there, ensuring this sceptred isle remains safe and free.
My least favourite expression, though, is “a Murder of crows”. Why? Thereby, as they say in the best literary circles, hangs a tale … Did you ever see Hitchcock’s film “The Birds”? Do you remember
the end, where Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren leave the house? The birds are now quiet, their victory won, their superiority over Man proven, following their ferocious attacks of the previous day and night.
But do you ever see birds like that in real life? I do. As you drive along the A1, coming to a slip-road, there they are – great distended bodies, beaks like yellow pneumatic drills, waddling their way along by
the side of the road – no doubt the hammer of unceasing traffic has driven the dazed worms to the surface of the grass in the adjoining fields, making them easy prey for the black assassins.But I digress from my tale. Some years ago I spent a very pleasant fortnight in Crete – lots of sun, idle swimming and plenty of Ouzo – or was it Retsina? Probably both, if truth be told. During my stay I made the acquaintance of a charming couple. Their name was Castle, Cyril and Cynthia. Remarkably, if you have a keen awareness of alliteration, her maiden name had been Crook: with all these names beginning with ‘C’, perhaps it was not surprising that he was a keen Chess player, much given to punning on the words
‘Castle’ and ‘Rook’. We played one night and I narrowly beat him. “You must come down to visit us in our ‘castle’ when we’re back home. I mean to have my revenge”, said Cyril after the game. I could only
agree, and shortly after my return home, I phoned them for directions to their secluded cottage, deep in the heart of Gloucestershire. I set off in good time on the day. The weather was fair in the morning,
but as I journeyed westward, clouds at first wispy and yellow became thick, white, and then a sullen shade of grey. As I turned off the main road onto a rutted farm-track, rain began to spit gently against my windscreen. Approaching the cottage, I became aware of a number of black crows perched on telegraph wires, poles, the house itself. Apart from their occasional rustling no other sound acknowledged my arrival. My cry of greeting was stifled in my throat as I saw the front door wide open. I lurched from the car and ran for all I was worth into the house. I knew, somehow, what it was I would find. The lifeless bodies of Cyril and Cynthia Castle lay on the floor of their living-room – their hands and faces pecked and bleeding, their clothes torn to shreds. But, worst of all, where once had been their eyes, were now only four sightless sockets. I have no recollection of how I got out of there. My stomach was heaving, my head was spinning. I drove away as fast as I could through now torrential rain, until I had put safe distance between myself and that sight I shall never forget. I wish the rain could have washed it from
my mind, but it could not. So if you mention “an Exaltation of larks”, I will smile wanly. “An Unkindness of ravens” will even cause me to laugh aloud. But please, please, don’t ever speak in my presence of “a Murder of crows”.
THOSE WHO CAN, DO
“When are you coming to bed? I don’t know why you spend all those hours marking those stupid books – if they were going to give you that promotion, you would have been Head of Department years ago.
What chance do you think you’ve got now, at your age?” Gilbert Jenkins sighed inwardly and tried to shut out the screeching voice of his wife Myra – always the same complaints, born of frustration
and contempt for the gentle soul to whom she had wedded herself such a long time ago, just to spite her mother – that clinging possessive drudge, who had tried to hold on to her with limpet-like tenacity, her
own husband having walked out one day to buy a packet of cigarettes and never come back.
Gilbert knew his wife wasn’t really a bad woman, but the cumulative effect of years of her nagging and complaining made something snap at last inside him. “For God’s sake, shut up!” he cried. “How dare you, you pathetic worm?” she screeched back at him. The red mist descended, his hands went round her throat, and squeezed, squeezed until the screeches became squawks, then gurgles, then nothing …
“Well, have any of your little darlings written anything worth all the hours you spend reading it all?” Myra asked sarcastically. Gilbert turned the exercise-book over and read the name of Philip Carter, Form 11b.
An imaginative boy, with a keen mind and some interesting ideas which he was able to convey quite vividly on paper. Gilbert made a mental note about the follow-up homework to be set the next day. What
should the essay title be? Ah, yes: “Getting away with Murder”.
MAN IN A SUITCASE
“Yes, it’s quite a nice turnout really. I’m surprised so many people came. Well, he was such a miserable devil these last few years – no interest in anything or anyone. I mean, you’d ask him out, or say “How are you?”, and there’d be no response, just that sort of wooden stare … Yes, thank you so much for coming, I’m sure my brother would have appreciated it … Where was I? Yes, I mean, of course, it was a terrible shock for him when his wife died, but it’s not as if they were a double act, what with her singing and him being a ventriloquist … Yes, Goodbye, Vicar, thank you so much – it was a lovely service, everyone said so… But all the life seemed to go out of him – he’d just spend hours on end in his room, talking to that damn dummy, Hugo. In the end, you couldn’t get a word out of him at all – he’d just stare at you with those empty eyes … ”. McGill awoke. It had been a long while since Hugo had come to open
the case and let him see daylight, if you call the yellow glow of a 40-watt bulb in a dingy room daylight. McGill was sure something must have happened to Hugo. He was bitter and cunning, crazy, even, at times, but his own continued existence outside, as well as McGill’s, required him to open the case every so often so that his awkward wooden frame could be lifted out and their sybaritic existence could be prolonged once more. It was so lonely and cramped inside the case. McGill thought he would try and sleep again. It would pass the time. He felt it would be a long wait.
FADE TO BLACK
Artie Roberts was the best. In his thirty-plus years in the lighting business, for stage and screen, he’d been told it often enough; by directors seeking to gain an Oscar for the film on the technical side,
by ambitious and established stars, keen to increase their reputations, the size of their next pay packet and their own chances of an Oscar. He could make the ugliest duckling look good; “Artie, you could take twenty years off Norma Desmond”, Zanuck had once told him; Artie’s only regret was that he had never had the chance – someone else had had a field day with the lighting effects in ‘Sunset Boulevard’, before he had established himself as ‘The Best’. No regrets and no real ambitions or feelings – till Liz arrived. Suddenly he was the object of flattery, mild flirting at first, accompanied by a tinkling laugh and admiring smiles that sent his head spinning. She was dark and striking, though lacking the classical grace of a Bette Davis, the steely gaze of a Barbara Stanwyck or the like. She wasn’t an actress – she came one day when he was working on some spy thriller in the heat of Spain. The Director brought her over and said: “This is Liz, my goddaughter – she wants to learn the film business – teach her everything you know, huh?”. And with that he turned away – one, no, two problems solved, while he went to cajole a highly-strung and highly-sexed star from her pills or dalliance in her trailer with her current leading man, out onto the heat of the set. Liz asked questions and learned quickly; she nodded as Artie
passed on, happily, the secrets he had learned through his years of experience. For Artie, it was like bathing in warm sunshine all the time – she seemed to be interested not just in all his knowledge, but
in him – the way she sometimes leant over him, touched his arm oh so accidentally, laughed at his occasional jokes. She was over twentyfive years younger than him, but what does age or common-sense matter where love is concerned? Artie blinked as he peered through the steam. The memories of
what came next made him more determined, though his eyes smarted as involuntary tears almost began to flow. At last Artie resolved to ask her out on a date. And then – who knew? But he realised he was in love and had found at last a woman who needed him and valued him for himself, it seemed. He glanced at the ledge and saw that what he had prepared was ready. Painfully he thought back to
the humiliation that had brought him where he was now. “Oh Artie, don’t be silly! You could be my father – I couldn’t go out with a little man like you – you’re nearly bald, for Heaven’s sake! I’m engaged to that cameraman, Vincenzo, I thought everybody knew! I’m sorry, but, oh, it’s too ridiculous!”. And with that she clacked off on high heels, laughing out loud – she had to tell Vincenzo, it really was too ridiculous, that silly little man … Well, he’d show her and her godfather the Director and Vincenzo and all of them – next time they needed Artie Roberts to make someone look good, they’d remember this day … He reached for the cut-throat razor on the ledge beside the bath. Yes, now, before the water cooled too much, then he could painlessly feel his shame and his life seep away into a warm sea where there was
no more pain. He checked the scene once more – the steam thinning now, the scene clearly visible, had there been any spectator to see. Quickly now, two strokes: left hand, right wrist, right hand, left wrist,
and it was done. The razor slipped into the reddening water beside him. As he drifted into unconsciousness he noted the final stage directions of the scene – soft focus, gentle fade to black, … rideau.