Beauties and the Beast (18 page)

Billy's heart was thumping at the effect the strange little man had on him, but he took up the rhythm again quickly from the driving insistence of the drummer.

Gounod's
Ave Maria
sounded more like a version from the composer's operatic version of the story of Dr Faustus. Billy belted out the words. He suddenly had no need of the sheet music. The man in white suddenly took on supreme importance. He was the man who had to be pleased. Billy reached into the depths of his talent and discovered a voice he never knew he had.

It carried the same resonance, the same tuneful ability, but it lost its rough edges. It became the voice he had once considered training until his teacher told him: “I can train you sing a well-modulated, average baritone. But you will never amount to anything. The way you use your voice is unique. I wouldn't touch it.”

The voice began to soar. It reached notes of perfect clarity and pitch. The range extended to a powerful tenor and the rocking rhythm slowed to a majestic symphonic movement.

He sang on, leaving the rhythm of his backing band behind. The drummer was out of synch, the guitar losing pitch. The riff was no longer there. Frantically Billy tried to recapture the rhythm as he felt the fanatical noise of the audience drift into shocked silence. His heart was beating fearfully now. He could feel he was losing it all again. The fans were going cold. He heard the mutter from the wings, “Billy Winter's finished”. Then he saw the man in white again. His face was shining with delight. His small pink hands clapped together happily in the midst of a heaving mass of disgruntled fans.

Billy ended the song. The bourbon bottle was in his hand again. Déjà vu. He howled and hurled the bottle, but this time it was swallowed by an amorphous mass that was his audience on this night.

The ecstatic young girls dissolved into demonic figures; black bodied with suppurating flesh and smoke-bleeding eyes, acrid, and leaching pus from yellow sores. They booed and hooted and began to leave the venue in waves. Only the man in white stayed in his seat, clapping and cheering. His pink face became pinker and his eyes began to shine like stars.

The demonic audience hissed and spat at him as they passed, but they gave him a wide birth. Billy stood breathing heavily. He had never sung anything so well in his life and the audience? He was hallucinating; he knew that, but the man in white. He must be the director. He loved what he saw. That was obvious. Was there a role for him in the modern masterpiece? Maybe, but strangely he knew he would never work with the band again.

From behind came the thunder of drums and the magical riff floated through the air. Billy ached with regret as the thunder diminished to a foot tap and the wailing guitar faded into the night. Without any sort of warning, pictures began to form in front of his eyes again; the horror pictures; little Mandy, the dope dealer. His heart pounded. His head began to swell until he closed his eyes and roared in mental agony. “No. Let me be.”

Then the images disappeared and he felt peace. Everything stopped and he opened his eyes. He stood silently staring until the sound of a single handclap brought him back to reality.

He was standing on the dimly-lit empty stage again.

Chapter Twenty Four

It was Thornton who was doing the slow handclap.

He had been watching in amazement at the transformation in the rock singer's voice as it wafted through the theatre's fine acoustics. Mickey too was staggered at the change from Hell-bent rocker to Heaven-bound angel. He had chuckled a few times at the antics of the singer who had been posturing and cavorting like an insane man.

“He must be on something strong to act like that,” he'd sniggered to Thornton. The actor had allowed a small smile to cross his face, a smile which broadened when he caught a glimpse of the darkening brow of Joshua Lucy. The pleasant-mannered gentleman looked less like an angel. More like a devil. I did not bode well for Billy Winter. That he knew.

So it was with a feeling of pleasure that Thornton broke the silence. His pleasure was at the surety that Billy Winter would not be his competition in the new play.

He ceased his clap and said with delicious malice. “What a marvellous piece of sacrilege.”

Billy turned, still dazed. “Eh?”

“Sacrilege,” repeated Thornton.

“You did bloody well,” volunteered Mickey. “I never thought you'd be able to sing that well.”

“No,” said Billy, wandering slowly back to the seats. He saw the woman, his tormentors, standing stony-faced by the computers. Not daring to look at Joshua Lucy.

“You didn't like it did you?”

Silence.

“Let me do another then,” he said, inexplicably feeling no fear. “Your special effects are fantastic. Give me another go.”

“Not for the moment,” snapped Angela. Resentment dripped from her voice and Billy felt her anger.

“What's the matter?” he asked. Don't you like me anymore?”

“Don't call us, we'll call you,” the blonde snapped back.

Diana laid a gently remonstrative hand on Angela and the girl bit her lip, before giving the red-head a shy smile and whispering a soft apology. Diana nodded and turned her attention to Billy. “Thank you Mr Winter,” she said in a soft voice alloyed with tungsten. “Not quite what we expected, but yYou did quite well.”

“You're not happy with me are you?” said Billy.

“There's still hope.” Lucy's voice rasped.

Angela's head lifted and that hope was in
her
eyes again.

“If you wouldn't mind taking your seat,” the urbane Mr Lucy was back, “then we can put your colleagues through their paces.”

Billy eyed Angela again and wondered if they would ever have that party. He caught the smoulder in the embers of her eyes. There was something there he hadn't notice before, something, something different. He looked her up and down. There was no physical change. She still had the same fantastic body and still smelled of musk and promise; still had the magical, shining blonde hair and the lips that could give pleasure or pain, and the legs that belonged in another dimension. So what was it?

Diana noticed the look of unease and took pleasure in it. Maybe all was not lost. “Please, Mr Winter?” Red lips opened in a half smile and the cool, elegant hands indicated the chairs.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Billy moved slowly over to Mickey and Thornton and sat, leaving a space between him and the actor. To Mickey the singer looked as spaced out as a man could be,

“You okay?” he asked, with almost genuine concern.

“I'm fine.” Billy addressed his answer to no-one in particular.

“Not been taking something have you?” said Mickey in an attempt at needle.

Billy smiled. “I don't need anything.” He paused. “Man crowds can be cruel.” He stared into the void beyond the lights again. Mickey and Thornton exchanged glanced. Mickey grinned gleefully and Thornton sighed heavily and turned away.

“Lot of people out there then?” said Mickey.

“Animals,” said Billy, “a crowd of animals.'

“I know what you mean,” said Mickey. “I've worked to audiences like that. Just one thing mate, where'd they all go?” He stood. “I can't see a damn single person out there.”

“No,” said Billy. “They all went, except for him.”

“Who?”

“The little bloke in white.”

Mickey laughed. “Just him eh?”

Billy gave him an enigmatic look. “Yeah, he stayed when they all left. Funny isn't it?”

Mickey leaned back I his chair, puzzled. As this exchange was taking place the women and Mr Lucy watched with interest, until Lucy indicated he wanted more action and Diana spoke.

“Mr Finnegan, if you don't mind.” She held out a sheet of paper that looked like ancient parchment.

Mickey shot his feet, suddenly eager to please. He waddled to Diana, ukulele in hand, and gingerly took the parchment.

“I'm wrapt in your sound system,” he said. “This old thing,” - he indicated the ukulele - “doesn't hold a tune too well. Neither does the voice come to that.”

“It's okay Mickey, you won't be singing.” There was an unnerving kindness in her tone.

Thornton's tone was not so pleasant. “Don't let him tell jokes either,” he snapped, laughing unpleasantly at his own witticism.

“Ha bloody ha,” said Mickey. “Don't give up
your
day job.” He glanced down at the sheet of parchment and rubbed his fingers over it, “This is old isn't it?” he said.

“No older than most of your anecdotes,” growled Thornton.

“Please, Mr Thornton.” There was reproach in Diana's voice, and Thornton closed his mouth, crossed his legs and arms, and stared into space. It was a masterful performance of silence. Diana turned her attention to Mickey. “It is indeed old,” she said. “It is a piece of original work.”

“And you want me to read it?” He looked at the parchment again. “Funny writing,” he said. “I doubt I can fathom this, it looks like the Chaucer stuff we used to read at school.”

“I'm sure you'll manage to interpret it,” smiled Diana. “Just try.”

Mickey looked at the strange looking words. His lips moved as he worked out the syllables. Then his crumpled face broke out into a broad smile and he looked triumphantly at Thornton.

“I've got it,” he said. “I can understand it. Boy, are you going to see something now.”

He coughed and took a step towards the front. This performance deserved a front centre projection. He read through the parchment again, rustling and mouthing. He glanced at the trio of smirking management figures.

Whenever you're ready Mr Finnegan,” said Joshua Lucy.

Mickey cleared his throat once more and began to read. His brow was furrowed with effort.

“Friends, Romans.” His concentration broke instantly and a grin spread over his crumpled face. “You know the tune they were singing when Vesuvius erupted?” He laughed, obviously not expecting an answer. Then he burst into a reedy-voiced, tuneless song. “Lava, when you're near me and I feel your burning flame ...”

His rendering of the old song made Billy Winter shudder.

He heard tittering from behind and he turned to see Angela and Diana laughing behind their hands. Lucy was grinning broadly.

“Very funny, Mr Finnegan,” he said. “But do continue, please.”

“Sorry,” said Mickey. “I got a bit carried away.”

“Nor far enough,” retorted Thornton.

Mickey glared at him and returned to the parchment. He re-read it, silently rehearsed it, and started again. “Friends, Romans and countrymen ...” Then the comedy disease hit him again. The line reminded him of another gag. He started before he knew it.

“Hey do you know what a specimen is?” The question was obviously rhetorical. “An Italian astronaut,” he added eager for the laughs. There were none. “Don't you get it? A space-a-man. Specimen.” The deliberate silence from Thornton and Billy was defeating him.

Diana saved the day. She gave a throaty laugh. “Very funny Mr Finnegan,” she said. “You are a master of comic timing, but could you continue please? Read the script”

Mickey blushed. “Sorry,” he said and concentrated fully in the parchment. This time Thornton leaned forward in his chair, listening.

“Friend, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” Mickey intoned dully.

Thornton brayed a derisive laugh. “Shakespeare! I
thought
it was Mark Anthony's funeral speech. “You can't surely expect this clown to recite Shakespeare!”

A look from Lucy subdued him instantly. There was something... ferocious... about the man. There was a subdued memory. Thornton closed his eyes. There was always a memory.

Mickey continued defiantly. “Lend me your ears. I come to bury er.” He squinted. “Er, ah yes, Caesar.”

Thornton sighed audibly. Mickey glared. “It's hard to read,” he said. “The writing's weird.”

Thornton pounced and took the paper. “My God,” he said, “Elizabethan script.”

“What did you expect,” snapped Angela. “It's Shakespeare.”

“Here give that back,” said Mickey, grabbing at the parchment. Thornton let go and sat down, puzzled. His head buzzed again - the costumes, Finnegan reading Mark Anthony, surely not this peculiar little man.

“Now I've lost my place.” Mickey's voice cut through the thoughts. “I don't know where I am.”

“It's a pity you're not somewhere else,” grated Thornton.

Mickey began his recitation once again. This time, he thought, he was getting a feel for the
words. It was then he became aware of the auditorium. The blackness had given way to a light glow, exit lights bleeding into the darkness. There were people there! An audience! He had an audience.

He desperately wanted to look, but he was not doing a well rehearsed comedy routine now. He was reading cold, reading Shakespeare cold. He could not see the people as he read, falteringly on, but he could feel them.

He could also feel gentle warmth emanating from the stalls. They liked him! They liked what he was doing. His confidence rose and suddenly the words had meaning. He knew them! Of course he did, from school. The study, the exams;
Julius Caesar!
He lowered the parchment and stared out into the crowd. There was a hush as he paused dramatically.

“He was my friend, faithful and just to me,” he said with a conviction that jolted him. “But Brutus says he was ambitious.” His delivery was slowly becoming classical. There was a mutter from the audience. Mickey didn't catch what they said, but he took it as approval and he continued with the speech. His voice deepened with passion. He stared into the rafters and stopped. Let them wait. When he looked back, his heart almost missed a beat. He was no longer in the theatre. The heat was not coming from the lights but from a noonday sun. There was the smell of bleached countryside and unwashed bodies. The audience was now a crowd of Romans in Togas or the loin cloths of the workers. Around him was gleaming white marble. It was the Capitol. He was in Rome. He stared at himself. His rotund body was sheathed in white cotton. He even had a silly laurel wreath crown on his head, but he was speaking intensely and the mob listened to every word he said.

He stared at them as he spoke. He felt the power flowing from inside. He knew that every man and woman in the crowd felt that power. And yet the words were not flowing properly. He knew that too.

He reached up and touched his laurel crown.

“You all did see upon the Lupercal I thrice presented him a Kingly crown ...”

Thornton and Mickey watched in wonder as the portly man strutted round the stage, making histrionic gestures.

“Anyone would think he had an audience,” said Thornton. “Or why else would be behave so stupidly.

Billy's eyes closed as he remembered. Maybe he had. “I had one,” he said finally.

“What?”

“An audience.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Thornton. “You were just as much an idiot as he. Parading up and down, but there was no-one watching.”

“Oh yes there was,” insisted Billy.

“Only in your mind.”

“Gentlemen!” the warning from Diana silenced them both and they stared gloomily at the prancing Mickey Finnegan.

Mickey spoke on. He knew they were listening intently, but he didn't feel right. Then he saw the little man, the pink faced little man, shaking his head sadly. He too was dressed in a toga, but he looked more like an angel than a Roman noble.

Suddenly Mickey knew, just as Billy had. It was the little man he needed to win. The crowd was already his. You didn't need to be even a good amateur to see that.

“This,” he thought, “calls for real acting.”

“You all did love him once,” he bellowed, “And not without cause.” The power of his voice surprised even Mickey. The little man clasped his hands in joy at the sudden transformation, but the crowd grew restless.

On the stage, Thornton sat erect and Billy began to listen, for Mickey's voice recited with immense power. It thundered across the footlights. Thornton managed a disdainful smile for the benefit of management, but inside his heart was thumping. Finnegan, the comic was becoming an amazing Mark Anthony.

Mickey was suddenly enjoying himself more than he had for years.

“Oh Judgement! Thou art fled to brutish beasts and men have lost their reason.” He put his hand to his head and appeared to stagger. There was utter silence from the crowd. Mickey knew he had them. “Bear with me,” he croaked, tearfully, “My heart is in the coffin, here with Caesar, and I must pause still it come back to me.”

This was the point he knew there would be rumblings of concern from the crowd. He'd seen the movie. Marlon Brando, John Geilgud, James Mason; Brando the brilliant. This was where the rebellion began.

Mickey lifted his head and looked sorrowfully at the crowd. But they were not there. He was inside the theatre again and the auditorium was filled with drunks and waiters shouting and clinking trays filled with glasses.

The little man in white was seated close to the stage. He was listening, engrossed. He applauded at the comic's dramatic pause, but the large, red-faced man with the faded blonde on his arm didn't. He stood and threw a beer soaked bread roll at him. “We didn't pay to hear that crap,” he yelled. “Tell us a funny story. You're supposed to be a bloody comic.”