Where The Bee Sucks Page 6

  Professor Cheese shook his head. “Ah, commercial enterprise,” he said sadly. “Where would we be without it?”

  Harry took this to be a rhetorical question, which indeed it was. He knew of Cheese’s dislike for Harry’s line of work, regarding it as somehow disrespectful to the playwright. The sorry truth of the matter was the town needed its tourist traps, needed its Shakespeare industry, to keep the place alive. Without its unique selling point to protect it, it would be just another pretty English market town, subjected to the vagaries of the economy, with its shop windows as boarded up as any other town’s.

  “Your moustache is slipping,” Cheese pointed out. Harry hadn’t been aware he’d left it glued on after the morning’s lacklustre tour. “You look nothing like him, you know.”

  “From the portraits I’ve seen,” Harry grinned, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  He left the professor to his third pint and - Harry only just noticed what he’d interrupted - resume the marking of a TV listings magazine with a highlighter pen. Professor Cheese had a penchant for antiques shows and old Tom and Jerry cartoons and made a concerted effort every week not to miss a single one.

  Harry’s feet took him past the theatre. Olly would be in there now, he thought. Lucky bastard. Lucky, talented bastard.

  Posters for the current production of The Tempest adorned hoardings and windows. Harry groaned. There was no getting away from the thing.

  But - he recalled Cheese’s words - if Ariel is a figure of my subconscious and not a real - whatsit - fairy, sprite or what-have-you, then perhaps I need a holiday and get out of town for a while.

  Or perhaps he needed a doctor’s appointment. The softly spoken man who had led Harry’s cognitive behaviour therapy sessions had made an open invitation. Come back any time, he’d said. If things get a little too much.

  Ha! Harry scoffed. How could he possibly breathe a word of anything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours?

  They would throw the key away.

  ***

  The members of the Group sat in their circle in the flickering candlelight of the disused chapel. No one spoke. They each looked at their shadowy confederates from under the cowls of their hooded gowns but each one was as anonymous as the next. They had gathered again but no one seemed sure of what to do or what was expected of them.

  Someone coughed. It echoed around the room. It was cold in there - silent gratitude was expressed for the thick wool of the ceremonial robes.

  From the rafters a dart of pigeon shit splash-landed in the centre.

  The members of the Group shifted uncomfortably on the creaky chairs but still no one spoke.

  Someone cleared his (or indeed, her) throat. Hooded heads turned in that direction but nothing further was forthcoming.

  Two hours later, the Group left, filing out in silence. The last one to go thought to blow out the candles and almost set her (or indeed, his) cowl on fire.

  Seven.

  Hank Brownlow had identified Janine’s body. The sheet had been pulled back to reveal her pale corpse. Brownlow’s outburst - a string of expletives - had been taken by the detectives present as an outpouring of grief for the unfortunate young woman, not knowing that the American’s sole concern was what this would mean to his series. Janine’s father (or etc) would not be best pleased, to put it fuckwittedly mildly.

  “And you’ve no idea what your assistant was doing at the, uh, Professor Banner’s office.” Detective Sergeant Jenkins didn’t phrase it as a question but Brownlow thought it required a response.

  “I’ve never heard of a Professor Banner. Perhaps Janine was following a lead, or preparing the way for me to interview the prof; I don’t know. Although that would show an uncharacteristic amount of initiative on her part.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The girl wasn’t much good at her job, Sergeant. I mean, I’m sorry she’s gone but I look forward to recruiting her replacement.”

  “Bit cold.”

  Brownlow pursed his lips. “Speaking professionally, of course. On a personal level, I am of course devastated. She wasn’t a bad girl, a little bit ditzy, but pleasant and kind.”

  “You’re back-pedalling.”

  “Sergeant, you will no doubt have seen that I have a cast-iron alibi - or whatever it is they use to make those charmingly cumbersome black cabs. I was on the road at the time. I hadn’t seen Janine since John F Kennedy - a week ago, this was. She didn’t show up in London - which was very inconvenient - and the next I hear is she’s been found stone cold in some dusty old professor’s office in Oxford.”

  “And you say you’ve never heard of Professor Banner, a, uh, Professor Calum Banner.”

  “I not only say it, it’s true! Have you checked Janine’s things? For messages? Her diary? Perhaps he contacted her and arranged a meeting. Christ; why am I doing your job?”

  “We’re going through her things, Mr Brownlow. That’s how we knew to call you.”

  “And you’ve no idea how she died? What happened to her?”

  Jenkins was silent for a moment. “We’re still examining the scene. There’ll be an autopsy, of course, but it’s the opinion of the scene-of-crime officer-in-charge that the poor girl dried up.”

  “You mean she was dehydrated? Jesus.”

  “No, Mr Brownlow. It looks more like desiccation.”

  The American stared at the cop. Horrific images swam behind his eyes. Alright, so the girl was a bit wet, but - Even Brownlow could appreciate the irony.

  Jenkins watched the effect the information was having on the famous face. It was interesting... “For the time being,” he said, “you may go. You’ll be staying in town.”

  Again, another non-question.

  “That’s not possible,” Brownlow scrunched his hair in his hand. “Tight schedule. Places to see, things to go, people to do.” He laughed to show how, although a hard-pressed professional almost bowed by the pressure of his itinerary, he was still a nice guy.

  “I advise you to stick around,” Jenkins got to his feet. “Someone, um, familiar, should be here to meet the girl’s father. Seems the decent thing to do.”

  He gestured to the door, ushering Brownlow out. Brownlow smiled and nodded. Fuck that, he was thinking. There was no way he was going to stick around for Goldman for some godawful scene of mawkishness and insincerity. Goldman was a businessman above all; he’d castigate Brownlow for not getting on with the job.

  And so it was Hank Brownlow convinced himself to go against the wishes of the police and head directly to Birmingham. The professor or don (or were they the same thing in this crazy country?) was probably already there. Brownlow was hoping his showbiz cred would get him to places the professor’s academic credentials could not.

  That he could tip off the cops and put them on Banner’s trail was never an option. He didn’t want the police nosing around the staff business. Especially since the acquisition of the third piece would involve more illegal activity.

  ***

  Harry was lying on his bed, holding up his tattered copy of The Tempest. His mind couldn’t focus and his eyes couldn’t stay open. Eventually and inevitably, given the lack of sleep the night before, he dozed off and didn’t even wake up when the book dropped from his grasp and hit him in the face.

  Across town, Harry’s housemate Olly was in a chair in the make-up office. A barber’s cape was draped over his shoulders and Jenna, one of the make-up team, was applying paint and latex to Olly’s face. He had requested that they cover the mirror until the make-up was complete and was looking forward to what he called ‘the big reveal’.

  “Oh, Olly,” Jenna had teased, “You’ve seen it before when Nigel wears it.”

  “But I haven’t seen it on me,” Olly protested. “I want to see my eyes looking back at me through Caliban’s face.”
>
  Jenna had indulged him. She liked Olly; he reminded her of her son who was away at university, and she couldn’t be happier that Olly had landed his first role, albeit as an understudy.

  She dabbed at his forehead with a brush, applying the finishing touches.

  “Are you ready?”

  “More than ever!”

  Jenna spun the chair around and then pulled the cover from the mirror.

  “Ta-dah!” she sang.

  Olly was stunned. True he had seen the design before, on Nigel’s face in performance when the bumps and ridges were brought to life by the actor’s interpretation of the role, and given additional texture and sheen by the lighting, but here in the stark overheads of the make-up room and looking back at him from the mirror, Jenna’s handiwork was something else entirely.

  He turned his head slowly from side to side. The creature in the mirror did the same - of course it did! What was he expecting? It really was breathtaking work. Jenna deserved any and all awards coming her way.

  Half of the head was ape-like, with a thick ridge above the eye and black, chimpanzee hair framing the cheek. The other half was amphibian, green and slimy. What would have been the hairline was a gradual build-up of warts and scales. Just below the jawline, the crimson flukes of stuck-on gills rippled whenever Olly swallowed or moved his Adam’s apple.

  “You like?”

  “Me like!” Olly was delighted. He laughed to see the gills open when he spoke, and again when they responded to his laughter.

  “Let’s be having you then.” Jenna peeled away the barber’s cape. Olly was still in his T-shirt and jeans - the costume fitting was yet to come. He stood against a bare wall while Jenna got to grips with a digital camera.

  Olly posed as though in police custody, face on, left and right profiles, and then he goofed around with a few silly poses for Jenna’s amusement.

  “Of course, it won’t take so long the next time,” Jenna showed him the pictures on the camera’s view screen. “Now the prosthetics are made.”

  Olly’s shoulders slumped. “If I ever get to wear it,” he said. “Oh, don’t get me wrong; I don’t wish ill on Nigel.”

  “I do,” Jenna nudged him. “Pompous arsehole.”

  Olly gave her a peck on the cheek with his rubber lips. “You are a saint as well as an artist,” he told her.

  “Give over,” she gave him a playful shrug. “Now, go and show it to Jeremy and we’ll start giving you your natural beauty back.”

  Olly pulled his jacket on and headed to the artistic director’s office. Jeremy was at his desk. He looked up when Olly knocked and was startled to see Caliban’s face leering at him through the glass panel. He made a show of having heart failure and then beckoned the creature in.

  “Yes, Nigel; what can I do for you, my love?”

  Olly paused with his false mouth open.

  “It’s me, Jez!” he twirled around on the spot.

  “Oliver!” Jeremy came from behind his desk and gestured for him to spin again. “Fabulous, darling! Do you know, I think it looks better on you. Nigel, you know, won’t put the teeth in. Changes the way the cheek sits. But I’ll have to see you in full cozzie, love. At the moment you look like the lead in I Was A Teenage Fish Monkey.”

  “Yes, um, Wanda’s fitting me tomorrow.”

  “Good old Wanda.”

  “So, I can tell Jenna it’s a green light from you?”

  “You may, indeed. Marvellous! Now, off you pop. There’s a love.”

  Jeremy returned to his seat; Olly was dismissed before he’d even left the room. Feeling deflated, Olly shuffled back to Jenna, and watched as his real face emerged as piece by piece the fish-monkey was put into a drawer labelled Oliver Rock, Caliban, Und.

  “There he is!” Jenna grinned at him in the mirror. “Beauty and the beast!”

  Olly smiled. His ego was full to bursting. Had Jeremy really taken him for Nigel?

  Just as quickly, his ego deflated and flew farting around the room like a punctured balloon. What was the good of being another Nigel? Olly wanted to be the first Olly. He scolded himself for his ingratitude. Being an understudy - even one that never went on - was much better than - well, what Harry was doing, for example. Dragging tourists around town in all weathers, putting up with their stupid questions and sense of entitlement! Sod that, thought Olly. I know which side my bread’s got low-fat non-dairy-spread on.

  ***

  Professor Calum Banner left the train at New Street Station. He went directly to the shop on the forecourt to replenish his supply of water, gulping half a bottle at a time like a man who had crawled across the Sahara. He had failed to find a suitable host on the train. It was too crowded, too public. But then, he reflected, his current form would give weight to his request. As he made his way through the city centre to the public library, he rehearsed his lines. He had come expressly from Oxford University to see the artefact. Yes, he had rung ahead; it was hardly his fault if there was no record of the call. No, he couldn’t remember with whom he had spoken. Some girl, he would say. There was always some girl you could blame things on. He would harrumph and bluster as befits a man of his appearance and he would complain and threaten: links between the library of Birmingham and the most prestigious university in the country (Cambridge be damned!) could suffer. The university might suddenly become reluctant to loan out some of its rarer items...

  He ignored the architecture old and new that lined his path to the library, which was itself a new build. He was quite started to see its tiered structure, like a box you might put a wedding cake in, adorned with decorative lattices that reminded him of bicycle wheels. The ground floor was all plate-glass and open access. Professor Banner shuddered to see the library had bean bags and throw pillows strewn around for the public use.

  No matter, he told himself. This is all cosmetic. What I need to see is on one of the upper floors. Somewhere more serious and academic. There would be no bean bags there.

  He was startled as the doors slid automatically open to admit him. He found himself in a trendy canteen - a cafeteria - no; a coffee shop, they were called these days. He could not suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. Think of the books! Think of the spillages!

  Interesting, he considered. The host body was acting on a sort of instinctive level. Professor Calum Banner was no more but something of his cantankerousness and his curmudgeonly nature lived on.

  The entity in the don’s body would have to monitor this unexpected eventuality. For what was to come, he would need complete control of whatever corpse he was occupying.

  All the more reason to ditch this old man as soon as possible.

  But first, he had work for the old man to do.

  He passed through the coffee shop and located the reception desk. The place was busy; there was a buzz of conversation - what the hell kind of library was this anyway? He felt a pang for the hallowed halls of Oxford, the studious silence and the comforting aisles of serious books.

  What is happening to me?

  Rather than approach the girl - told you: there is always some girl - he located the sign directing him to the Gents. A little water would clear his head. Then he would ask to be shown up to the Shakespeare collection.

  ***

  Hank Brownlow cursed the ticket seller. The price of a first class ticket to Birmingham was astronomical but Brownlow had no choice. His celebrity status cut no ice; his offer of an autograph and a recording for the outgoing message on the ticket seller’s voicemail had been met with a glassy stare. He charged the ticket to the card reserved for expenses. Ultimately, Goldman would foot the bill - or rather, deduct it from the show’s budget.

  The second shock was how long he would have to wait for the train. What a way to run a railroad!

  While he waited, he tried to call his agent. Isaac wasn
’t answering. Brownlow cursed the inventor of the caller i.d. function, forgetting the times he found it useful for screening out unwanted conversations.

  He had a mind to hurl the phone onto the tracks but guessed it would probably fall into obsolescence long before it could be obliterated beneath the wheels of any fucking train.

  What a country!

  ***

  Harry stirred on his bed and then sat up with a start. He hadn’t planned on sleeping at all and now the afternoon had got away from him. He would barely have time for a quick shower before the ghost walk.

  Shit.

  Pulling his clothes off, he made his way to the bathroom. A radio was playing in the kitchen. Someone was singing along. Alicia, Olly’s girlfriend. Harry quickly locked the bathroom door.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like Alicia. Not really.

  It was just that he didn’t think she was right for Olly.

  Harry ran the shower and looked in the mirror. Now, there was a face that was right for Olly, he sighed.

  The refreshing hot water eased the tension in his neck and upper back. He tilted his head back so the water hit him square in the face.

  A sudden dizziness buckled his legs. Harry had to steady himself against the tiled wall.

  The bathroom changed. Even though his eyes were shut to keep out the shampoo, Harry could see as plain as day another room, another sink. Water was running from a tap. Hands, gnarled, yellowed, liver-spotted hands, were cupped under the tap. Harry looked up and made eye contact with an old man in the mirror. Harry gasped. The vision dissolved. Harry opened his eyes. His own bathroom was back.

  What the hell was that?

  He rinsed out the last of the shampoo. The water alternately scalded and froze him within seconds.

  Alicia!

  She must be using the kitchen taps.

  Another reason to dislike her.

  Harry stepped out of the shower and padded himself dry with a towel. Only when he was dry did he reach up to wipe the steam from the mirror.