The Death of an Actor (The Bentley Hill Players Book 3) Read online

  Sophie looked at Chris, open-mouthed in exasperation.

  "I think," said Harry, "you'd better leave it at that, Chris. Tom would have found some way to interfere with our show no matter what. Zoe's just an excuse."

  "A miserable excuse..." muttered Sophie.

  "Well I think she's very brave," said Chris.

  "Brave? How?" asked Sophie, incredulous.

  "I didn't see a single person under 40 up there tonight, excluding her. She has to be brave if she's the youngest one there."

  "You don't think the experience of all the others will carry her along and help her?"

  "No, once you get to know her you'll understand..."

  "I DON'T WANT TO GET TO KNOW HER! I HATE HER GUTS! IF EMILY HADN'T GOT IN THE WAY, I'D HAVE DECKED HER MYSELF!"

  "All right, settle down. You don't have to go comparing yourself to her. I'm with you, aren't I?"

  "Comparing myself to her? You're no prize, Christopher Crumple!"

  Sophie stormed out of the hall and headed off down the street. Chris chased after her to the door.

  "Soph! Soph! What do you mean I'm not a prize?"

  "He's a prize idiot, that's what he is," muttered Jim from somewhere behind the curtains.

  ***

  With ten minutes left until the doors were due to open, Sophie returned. She apologized to everyone present for her behaviour, with the exception of Chris. Harry instead apologized for Chris, explaining that he'd been an idiot for years, and didn't know what he was on about half the time.

  Chris denied this, and stated that he did in fact know what he was on about, for at least half the time.

  Make-up was applied, costumes donned, and several members of the cast frantically read through their scripts one more time. The doors were open, and the audience flooded through them and into their seats.

  If you can call four people a flood.

  "This is ridiculous," said Jim. "Four people! How have we come to this?"

  "Lack of advertising, that's how," said Harry. "No-one knows were doing this show. Tom's caused a media blackout for us."

  "I'll give him a blackout!" said Emily.

  "What?"

  "Sorry. I meant black eye."

  "So what do we do?" asked Jim. "We can't very well perform in front of four people!"

  "No, Jimbob, you're wrong," said Owen. "We can. And we must. The show must always go on. It's one more than we expected."

  "But one of them is Bob Haynes..."

  "Wheelie Bin Bob?" asked Chris.

  "Yes, Wheelie Bin Bob. I'm surprised he's not up at Blackworth market pulling his bin round after him."

  "He's not brought it in, has he? I bet that bloke that cleans the bins invited him."

  "Can't see it. Might be hidden at the back somewhere. I know for a fact he's never had it cleaned."

  "Anyway," said Owen, "as I was saying, we can't call off the show. If we perform in front of four people or four million, they've paid for a ticket and made the effort to get here. And if we're good, they'll spread the word. Once more into your britches, and all that."

  "I don't think that's it, Owen. But I agree with the sentiment. The show absolutely must go on. But I'll tell you what, the smaller the audience, the more self conscious I feel. In a big crowd, I don't think it's easy to pick out individual reactions. But if there's only four of 'em..."

  "Just imagine them naked," said Owen.

  "Ew!" said Sophie. "You want to imagine Wheelie Bin Bob naked? That's going to make it worse!"

  "Some people say he is naked," said Owen, "and what you see on the outside is just a collection of dirt in the shape of clothes. Others say he escaped from the zoo. And yet others say..."

  "Nobody cares Owen, " said Jim. "The curtains are going up in a few minutes, so everybody get ready and prepare yourselves. Wait a minute. Where's Dave?"

  "Here!" came a voice...from nowhere.

  "Dave?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are you?"

  "Right here Jim!"

  Jim looked around. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific."

  "Oh wait, I've got my hands behind my back. I'll put one over my head."

  All of a sudden, a parrot appeared and flew from 4 feet to around 7 feet off the ground. It wafted back and forth.

  "I'm here!"

  "Well blow me, so you are! That black suit really hides you well. I knew this was going to work. No need for a real parrot...."

  Lillian wailed.

  "...or an electronic one..."

  Harry grunted.

  "...just a bloke dressed in black with his hand up his bum. By which I mean the parrot's bum. A bloke with his hand up a parrot's bum, making him talk."

  "If someone had their hand up my bum I'd do more than talk," said Lillian.

  "Anyway, that's brilliant Dave. Good work."

  "I'm over here, Jim."

  "Sorry, so you are. Good work. I'd shake your hand but I can't see it."

  "I wouldn't shake his hand if I were you," said Lillian. "He's had it up a parrot's bum."

  Chapter 10

  As Owen so rightly said, the show must go on, and it did. Every so often, one of the Players would look directly at one of the audience members, and it would completely throw them off. Lines were forgotten, stage positioning was incorrect, and for a horrible two minute period, Lillian and Owen repeated their lines to each other in a loop that felt never-ending. Jim had to come on stage and physically poke Owen to get him to move on.

  But the worst was yet to come. Dave's black outfit was brilliant, as he couldn't be seen. On his hand he wore a fake parrot, constructed from left over parts of Harry's electronic parrot. The beak was operated with a piece of fishing line and a spring. Unfortunately, towards the end of the first act, the line snapped, and the spring slammed the beak shut with such force that the parrot's head exploded.

  This did not go unnoticed by the audience, and Wheelie Bin Bob was unable to stop himself laughing until midway through the interval. At the same time, Harry was desperately trying to repair the parrot's head. The parrot reappeared in the second act with masking tape wrapped around his head.

  After that, it all went relatively smoothly, until the critical moment when the parrot was due to announce who the murderer was, at which point the head exploded again.

  The final curtain closed with two members of the audience applauding, and Wheelie Bin Bob standing up, shouting and cheering.

  "At least someone enjoyed it," muttered Jim.

  "You never know, Wheelie Bin Bob might encourage some folk to come down tomorrow night," said Harry.

  "I doubt it. I don't think he has any friends, and people go in the opposite direction when they see him coming..."

  "So why don't we get him to stand outside the Old Cinema?" asked Owen.

  "Not a bad plan, Owen. But before we even consider that, Harry's got some work to do."

  "Have I?"

  "Yes. I want to try and get through the show tomorrow night without the parrot blowing up in someone's face."

  ***

  Harry sat up late that evening in his kitchen, working on the parrot. Just like before, the parrot seemed to be intermittently intercepting radio messages.

  "BZZT...dead. As a doorknob...CRK!"

  Harry shuddered. Dead. That doesn't sound good.

  "CHSH...yeah, in a few days. Didn't take much. But she's not been up to tell me, so I don't know what her plan is...BZZ!"

  This could be interesting. A new plan. Maybe I should take notes.

  "BZZT...no, silly old idiot in a play. I went to see it tonight, nobody there. Hung about near the entrance. Their fake parrot kept exploding!...CHSHSH"

  Harry froze.

  "CA-CAW!...yeah, yeah. That's how you get away with murder, my friend, by murdering the only witness! BZT! CHSHSH! BZT!"

  Harry ran out of his front door and straight round to Chris's house.

  ***

  "What? I was just going up to bed..."

  "Parrot! M
urder! Lillian! They're going to kill her next!"

  "Who? What? Slow down!"

  "The parrot has been receiving messages again. Tonight, they were about our show, and Lillian. Did you see someone hanging around outside?"

  "Wheelie Bin Bob..."

  "No, apart from him."

  "No, nobody."

  "The message was from the lurker. I heard his voice! Apparently, they think that Lillian murdered the parrot, and they're going to kill her. She's the only witness, so they need to get rid of her!"

  "Witness to what?"

  "The murder of the parrot!"

  "That doesn't make any sense. So what if she is the only witness?"

  "Oh good grief, you're right. We all saw that parrot die. They're going to kill us all!"

  "Right, mate. You'd better come in. I'll put the kettle on..."

  ***

  Part way through their second cup of tea, Chris was struck by a thought.

  "What if, and this is a big if, you're wrong. What if Lillian witnessed another murder, and they want to kill her so she keeps quiet about it?"

  "Surely she would have mentioned it," said Harry.

  "She does forget things though."

  "Yes, but she'd probably remember witnessing a murder."

  "True. Unless she didn't realise she'd witnessed a murder."

  "How would that work? I know you said you were going to bed, Chris, but I think you're dreaming right now..."

  "No, stick with me on this. Imagine, she went shopping. And, I dunno, someone got knocked down by a car, and it was deliberate, not an accident. She might not realise it was a murder."

  "But again, I think she would have mentioned it to us. She like News of the World. If it happens in Blackworth, Bentley, or Northfields, she'll know about it and she'll let everyone else know about it."

  "Exactly!" said Chris, banging his fist on the table. "The perfect reason to do away with her. If she's seen it, she'll tell everyone!"

  "That's actually a good point. They said they were going to do it in a few days, so we're going to have to do something to keep her safe."

  "We could ask Jim and Anne if she could move in for a few days. I know! We'll say we want to redecorate her flat, and then we can be in there while she isn't. And then when they try to murder her, we'll be there instead!"

  "I think I understand what you're trying to do, but I'm not sure I fancy being the surrogate murder victim..."

  "No, we'd be armed. Baseball bats and stuff. They won't get us. I'll ring Jim in the morning and set the wheels in motion."

  ***

  When the situation had been clearly explained, and Jim had the full details from both Chris and Harry, he agreed immediately that Lillian should move in with him and Anne for a few days. He was less keen on Chris and Harry moving in to Lillian's flat, but couldn't think of a better excuse to get Lillian to move out.

  Lillian agreed after very little persuasion, with her only request being that Anne served her breakfast in bed every morning she was there. Anne hoped it could all be over and done with quickly.

  Lillian was moved in to the spare room at Jim and Anne's house by early afternoon, which was convenient, as there was still a show to prepare for in the evening. Chris, Harry, Sophie and Emily spent most of the afternoon moving furniture around and scraping off wallpaper. If Lillian were to return after several days and find nothing had changed in her flat, she would become suspicious, and suspicion would lead to worry, and Harry did not want to be responsible for causing any worry to an old lady.

  Chris on the other hand seemed quite intent on worrying Lillian's teabags. Where some people smoke one cigarette after another, and become known as chain-smokers, Chris seemed incapable of functioning without a cup of tea in his hand. He wasn't so much a chain-drinker as a chain-mug-holder.

  "We 'avin another brew?" he asked.

  "You've still got half a cup left!" protested Sophie.

  "I know. I'll finish that while I wait for the kettle to boil."

  By 5pm they'd been there for just over four hours. In that time Chris had managed to get through 12 cups of tea.

  "We're going to have to leave soon," said Harry. "The doors open in about an hour and a half, and I've not eaten since lunchtime."

  "Just one more cuppa and then we'll be off!"

  ***

  Jim sat on the edge of the stage looking more than a little bit annoyed.

  "I can't believe this. We should have started the show ten minutes ago, and there's still nobody here! An empty hall! There's not even a ghost to watch us!"

  Emily came and sat next to him.

  "I wouldn't be too sure about that, Mr Butler. There are always spirits around us, it's just that they don't make their presence known very often."

  "Always, Em?"

  "Always. Even when you're in bed. Or in the bath. Or on the toilet."

  "That's disgusting, Emily. Why do they watch us and not let us know they are there? Especially if we're on the toilet?"

  "Mr Butler, if you knew there was someone in there watching you, would you be able to go?"

  "You're wise beyond your years, young 'un. But it doesn't change the fact that there's nobody here. Or at least not folk who've paid for a ticket. This is all Tom McLean's fault."

  "CORRECT, JIMBOLINA!", yelled Owen, dramatically jumping out from behind the curtain. "And I intend to do something about it. Tonight's show is off. I, myself, am away...on a mission. Ta ta!"

  Owen leaped off the stage and ran out the front door.

  "Has anyone got enough money to bail him out later?" asked Jim.

  Chapter 11

  Owen ran all the way home, let himself in, and leaving the front door open, went through to his dining room. He hopped on the motor scooter he kept in there, and started it up. He rode through to the front room and out on to the street, swinging the front door closed behind him with one hand.

  He popped a wheelie, and headed off up the hill to the Old Cinema in Blackworth.

  ***

  "Well, I guess that's it. No audience, one actor gone AWOL, and a parrot that will still probably explode. We may as well go home."

  "Come on Jim," said Harry. "It's not all bad. At least you can walk around during this show. You're not in a wheelchair like last time."

  "Actually, I can't, because there isn't going to be a show tonight. Sure, I can walk, but the only walking I need to do is to get out of here. It's a disaster."

  "Oooh, it's a dis-arse-tar!" said Chris, and suddenly looked sheepish. "Sorry. I thought I was on Strictly Come Dancing for a moment there."

  "Like I said, let's go home."

  ***

  Owen parked his scooter down a side street, and set off on foot to the Old Cinema. There was a queue outside, and lots of people inside just milling around. His view was slightly obscured as one of the glass doors was now boarded up.

  He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and walked as innocently as he could past the line of people, and down the alley at the side of the Old Cinema. When he was sure nobody was looking, he took a running jump at the wall, and dragged himself up and over in to the small paved area around the back of the building. He crept up to one of the windows and peered in. An office with a desk - nothing to see there. He moved along to the next window. An immensely fat woman wearing a dress covered in sequins, applying lip gloss in a mirror. Owen shuddered, and moved on to the next window. A tall thin man, wearing a suit, taking a drink from a mug of coffee. It was Martin Silver, the pub singer. He suddenly stood, and went out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

  "Ah hah! Now's my chance!" said Owen excitedly as he pulled the window as hard as he could. It opened with a pop, and he crawled through into the room. He reached inside his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small bag containing several white pills. He dropped one in the coffee mug, and heard footsteps approaching down the corridor outside. He quickly scrambled under a table and curled himself in to a ball.

  Martin came back in the room, mutter
ed to himself, "Here we go!", and finished off his coffee in one giant swig.

  "Urgh! That was bitter at the bottom. I think I'll have two sugars next time. Right. Onwards!"

  He strode out the room, and Owen could hear music begin to play. He crept out from under the table and started to explore.

  ***

  It didn't take long for Owen to find the kitchen. He was undisturbed as everyone else in the building was focussed on the stage. A giant tea urn stood on a work-surface in the kitchen, filled almost to the top and kept warm by what could only be described as a device. Owen poured the rest of his bag of pills down the spout of the urn.

  "This is going to be a show that has to be seen to be believed!"

  He made his way back to the room he had first entered, climbed out the window, and closed it behind him. He once again scrambled over the wall, and went round the front of the Old Cinema. The queue was gone, but an attendant still stood in the foyer.

  "Hallo, old chap. How much is a ticket tonight?"

  "Seven fifty, bud. Show has already started though."

  "Here's a tenner. Keep the change. And I think the show is only just about to begin."

  Owen laughed maniacally.

  "You all right there?"

  "Yes, just have a bit of a cold."

  And Owen walked in to the auditorium to see what would unfold.

  ***

  Tom McLean was a perfectionist. Where many would just make-do, he took total pride in everything, and this show was no exception. There were gigantic speakers, immense lighting rigs, wireless microphones, bright perfectly tailored costumes, and most upsetting for Owen, only four empty seats - he hoped that it wouldn't be this close to a sell out.

  One of the empty seats was on the back row, and Owen quickly inserted himself to cause the least fuss amongst the audience members around him. He settled back in the plush cushioning of the seat, and reached in to his bag to pull out a packet of boiled sweets. He noisily open the bag, and began unwrapping the first sweet. Someone two rows in front told him to shhh.