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6M

P3

Insidiator

By

Alex Jameson

Synopsis

 

Strange girl in the TV shows, disturbing.  Gone now.  Days, passing.  Years.  His son, now drifting away.  Then she’s back, on the screen, and there it is, the tug of the current.  A forgotten researcher’s secret project is dragging him over the edge.  And out of nowhere, Boscanion -The Movie, aka The Getout Stakes. But Gram is further away, almost out of sight.  Take him to his father’s past, the deep blue Indian Ocean where there are holes, shark-shaped.  Where it’s safer these days.  Get him back, show him his father is still … what he used to be.  Paradise with tourists.  A golden tooth made to rip turtleshell.  Golden-eyed bats.  Pink-eyed drunks.  There’s just one thing he should definitely avoid, something which left a kind of mark in his mind.  Which sometimes, at night, draws him in.  Far out in the sea is a vast, voodoo fossil circle.  Lagoon breathes in.  They’re swept along.  Trespass.  Sweating mangrove heart, a million fishes, his son.  Sharks at last.  Strange girl.  Lagoon breathes out.  

 

Charles Chinchard was at his most fluent, and had clearly been drinking, which came as something of a relief.  At the convention he'd been lamenting the cruel hand life had dealt him, yearning eloquently for the hangovers he could no longer regularly afford.  Stan carried out a discreet inspection:  the long black coat and scarf smelled stale and ginny even in the cold and breezy outdoors, the foppish old red fedora on the bench beside him carried a whiff of desperation.  He resembled more than ever an old and venerated English character actor playing a toff down on his luck, an illusion Charlie was perfectly happy to encourage.  During the production of Insidiator, or just afterwards, his long-time marriage had collapsed, he had dived into the bottle, and work had dried up.  He had cultivated his own version of the imperial moustache and beard and the long hair he had worn as the swashbuckling Boscanion, all now an improbable black; in addition, the veteran actor’s face was obviously made up.  His old eyes sparkled with the joy of life, in best Boscanion manner, but its source was a bottle of gin.  Gin was Charlie’s preferred drink, as Stan had reason to know.  During production there had been some marathon sessions, with Ray usually at the helm and whoever else was around, in funds and in the mood happily on board.  Harak the headman had been a particularly dedicated participant, he recalled.  Now, who would play Harak in the movie?  Bernard Hill, perhaps, or even Vinnie Jones; but someone less familiar would be better, someone with a powerful and commanding presence, demonstrably dim … and he must get out of the habit of considering only British actors, he must think international, and there were any number of Americans suited to the part … or, why not show some imagination, take a gamble with a non-pro, a star in some other area, let’s say football.  That strutting German mid-fielder, Effenberg for instance …  No, maybe not.  Play safe then.  Bruce Willis would do, bit of challenging character work for him, or perhaps Kurt Russell.  And he must start working up a Badass …  ‘There’s talk of a film, Charlie ... ’ 

He shouldn’t have said that.  He hadn’t been concentrating.

Chinchard stared at him, eyes wide.  ‘A film,’ he mumbled.  Then:  ‘A film!  And how overdue!  More good work by Raymond?  I wish to know the casting schedule!  I must know everything Stanley!  I must prepare!  It was ordained.  My new friends assured me we stood on the brink of great things!  Wonders are in the air!’

In his head, Stan kicked himself.  ‘Hold on Charlie, hold on.  There’s nothing definite, and I can’t say any more.  In fact I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.  You’ll have to - ’

But tears were tracking through Chinchard’s makeup, and he was making snuffling sounds.  Kato, slumped on the path at their feet, watching the world go by, looked up.

‘Do you ever hear from her, Stanley?  Truly, I mean?  From Kim?’

‘No Charlie.’  He always asked this.  ‘No-one has.  You know that.’

Chinchard nodded.  The old boy was wheezing now.  ‘Yes.  Of course.  It was my fault you know, my fault she went off like that.  She was so vulnerable, wasn’t she?  So lacking in the guile we are all supposed to have.  I … I wanted her to go away with me, when we had completed our work.  Somewhere hot.  She was always so cold, wasn’t she?  I grew up in India, did you know?  Foolish, foolish old man - that’s what you’re thinking.  But we used to talk.  You know how she was, pitifully eager to learn, almost desperate to improve her appreciation of the arts, of matters cultural.  For a time, I was her tutor.  I thought … foolish of me, yes, you’re quite right of course.  Excuse me Stanley … ’

Chinchard pulled out a flat quarter bottle of Beefeater, took a tiny nip, popped it away with an attempt at Boscanion’s dashing smile.

‘I’ve talked with my friends about this actually, over and over.  They say I’ve nothing to reproach myself for.  They’re very understanding you know, having such sympathy for her.’

‘I know.  They think she was kept under lock and key and fed control drugs like Judy Garland.  They blame Ray.  Me too, I expect.’

Chinchard nodded, but he wasn’t in the mood for listening.  ‘I feel better about it now.  I used to think she looked to me as to … I don’t know, a surrogate father I suppose.  And, between you and I, she simply didn’t seem quite able to grasp abstractions, despite the intensity of her yearning.  It was rather strange, but no doubt I have my shortcomings as a guru-figure.  Anyway, I eventually came to realize that it was you she wanted to be with, you she wanted to impress.  How she envied dear Liza!  Yes, to Kim, you were always Boscanion, not me.’

Memories swirled up like disturbed sediment.  ‘It was all a long time ago, Charlie.’  He seemed to be forever telling people that.  ‘We managed to get a decent show out of it, anyway.’

Chinchard brightened.  ‘It is very good, isn’t it?  Even now.  Some of my finest work, Stanley, and thanks in no small part to yourself and Raymond.  My Book, too, is a source of some satisfaction.  There were certain technical obstacles to be surmounted, you know.  All was not as straightforward as it may appear now –’

‘I know Charlie.  I was there.’