Off Script 2 (of 2)

Continued from Part 1: Off Script-1 | ABCtales

Six months later…

“Well,” said the director to the assembled cast of Deadly Horseplay. “I think you’ve all done very well – some superb acting. Especially our two female co-stars.”

He’d learned from bitter experience not to single out Zoe, or Chistine, for specific praise in front of the rest of the crew. That inevitably put him in what he called the Lotus Position – Lots of Trouble, Usually Serious.

The director  looked down at his clipboard. “We just need to sort out a couple of things. We’re going round to film at Hazeldene Primary on Tuesday afternoon. They’ve promised to have the whole school there – all four hundred of them.”

The Hazeldene kids were to play the part of a demonic child audience in the final epic fight between the two halves of the pantomime horse, frenziedly urging them on to batter each other to pieces. By all accounts they wouldn’t need much coaching. There was also the scene where half a dozen of the kids ripped the head off the prostrate front half of the horse; for horrifying split second it would look as if actual head had been torn from its shoulders.

The director looked down his list. “And the other thing is Zoe’s stunt double; I’ll contact the agency tomorrow…”

Zoe cleared her throat. “Actually, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I think we should restage the fight scene again. With us two.”

Christine looked across at her, and looked down her long nose at her co-star: “Well, you’re quite the little glutton for punishment.” She looked across at the director. He shrugged. “Well, if you feel confident, Zoe.”

“I do,” she said.

 

“And ACTION!”

“You bitch! You fucking BITCH!” yelled Zoe from inside the horse’s head. She leapt across the deck and seized Christine’s long hair and thrust the fingers of her right hand into her face. Christine snarled and twisted her head sideways, then made a grab for Zoe’s right wrist. Zoe wrenched herself free, then brought her fist in an uppercut into Christine’s jaw. “OW!” yelled Christine. “That hurt!”

“Yeah!” said Zoe. “And this! And this! And THIS!” Punches, kicks and knees rained down; many of them missed, but quite a few went home. A small trickle of red blood coursed down Christine's upper lip.

The cameraman shot the director a worried glance. The director circled his right hand vigorously: keep the camera turning.

Christine staggered backwards across the stage, her trajectory halted by the painted backscene of a medieval marketplace. It trembled from the impact. “AAARGH!” she yelled, bouncing involuntarily back towards her adversary. Zoe tilted her horse’s head backwards, then slammed it forwards, a manoeuvre known as a Kirby Kiss or a Glasgow Kiss, according to geography. There was a muffled bump as horse and human head made contact; Christine wasn’t hurt but the impact and shock threw her momentarily off-balance. She crashed, backwards, sprawling onto the deck. Zoe threw herself on top of her, legs astride her prostrate opponent. “Fuckin’ fuckin BITCH!” she yelled, swinging her fist into Christine’s already bloodied nose. “OOO-WWWWWW!” moaned Christine. Zoe circled her right fist above Christine’s face, then slammed it down onto her left eye. The cameraman turned to the director: “I really think we should stop…” The director waved him angrily aside.

Christine, pinioned, seemed to be trying to bury her head in the decking. “Whore…” she spat, not loudly, almost a whisper to herself.

Zoe paused, fist poised mid-air. “WHAT did you say, Bitch?”

“You heard. You can’t act. We all know why you got the part -you’re nothing but a – AARRGH!” Her words were cut short by Zoe’s fist, the left this time, smashing into her jaw.

The cameraman shot a worried glance at the director. The director circled his hand vigorously …carry on.

Zoe leaped up and grabbed Christine’s ankles. Leaning backwards, she planted each foot firmly after the other as she dragged the prostrate back half of the horse across the stage towards the edge; Christine’s hands scrabbled ineffectually at the wooden planking. Zoe shoved her half over the edge, hooved feet first, flailing in the air. Zoe leaned down, her head almost touching Christine’s and lifted her up by the shoulders. “Any last wishes before you go over the edge, Miss Lucas?” she hissed. “I thought we’d give the hay bales a miss. More realistic.”

“Please Zoe, PLEASE! I’m sorry I called you a whore …”

“You’re only sorry because you’re poised ten feet above a hard floor. COW!” Zoe shoved Christine’s shoulders forward.

“CUT!” yelled the director. “Zoe! STOP! STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!” The entire crew of Deadly Horseplay ran in unison towards the edge of the stage, yelling and waving their arms.

 

 

The members of the cast who’d hung around gathered in the studio canteen nursing beers and hot drinks. Christine sat, propped up in the comfy chair, an ice-pack on her left eye. It was a rich puce, nearly closed. “Now, are you absolutely sure I can’t run you up to St Leonard’s Casualty?” said Bruce, the cameraman. “I mean, you took one hell of a beating…”

“Never let it be said that that little five foot six piece of nothing, that whore and bitch, Zoe Williams, managed to put me in hospital,” growled Christine through her aching jaw. “Rather die.”

Bruce shrugged. “Well, the offer’s still there, if you feel yourself going under. No headaches, nausea, anything like that?”

“I hope you’re not going to hold your fingers up and ask me to count them. No way is fuckin’ Zoe Williams ever going to put me in that position.”

The director came down the stairs. “You OK, Christine?”

“Yeah. All the better for being set upon by a homicidal maniac.”

“Well, you look as if you’ve been in a fight, that’s for sure. Look Christine, we only have one last scene to do – it’s just the one where you go over the edge of the stage. I’ll contact the agency for a double for you first thing tomorrow…”

“We’ll see. Maybe I’ll feel up to it.” Christine levered herself up out of the armchair, stood upright for half a second and then fell forward, pole-axed. The cameraman grabbed her just in time before she hit the floor. “SHIT! Somebody call an ambulance!” said the director.

 

 

-0000-

All in all, it had been a very successful meeting, the director thought. The issue of whether Zoe Williams or Christine Lucas were to be named first on the billboards had finally been resolved; the entire cast would be named in alphabetical Christian-name order, but ‘Zoe Williams as Zoe Williams’ would get highlighted in red Showcard Gothic, which would also emphatically round off the list. Christine Lucas (as Christine Lucas) had eventually, after some persuasion, settled for a yellow version of the same font. (Her font size would also be very slightly smaller, but by the time the posters were printed, it would be too late to do anything about it and he vowed not to let either of them see the pre-production versions.)

“Er, just one last thing,” said the director. “I know we’ve had our, er, artistic differences during filming. But could we, after three months, bury the hatchet? I mean, we need to present a united front to our backers and all that…”

“I’ll apologise if she apologies,” said Christine. “But only if she apologises first.”

“I think that’s a generous offer, Zoe,” said the director. “I mean, Christine has agreed not to press charges, which under the circumstances is very magnanimous…”

“What’s this about pressing charges?” said Zoe. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“Well, you wouldn’t hear of it, bitch, not until the solicitor’s letter lands on your doormat.”

“Ladies! Ladies! I don’t think Christine is going to do any such thing. I mean, it would seriously complicate the release of the film…”

“Christine - tell me straight! Are you going to press charges?”

“Haven’t made up my mind, yet. Might, might not. I mean, it’s all recorded on film – can’t get better evidence than that. And hospital records; concussion, serious injuries... Ask me again in three months’ time.”

“Christine! Surely…”

“Nothing’s sure in this world, is it? Now Zoe, I think you were going to apologize first? And, sweetie?”

“Yes?”

“Afterwards, I thought I’d walk home. Get some fresh air and exercise. I’d like you to come with me…Only a mile or so out of your way, isn’t it?”

“Y-e-es?”

“Got a load of books from the library this morning, I’m researching that part in the Six Wives of Henry the Eighth at the Globe, don’t you know? So my bag’s rather heavy. You can carry it.”

 

 

-0000-

It had, thought Zoe, almost certainly been the worst three months of her short life. She glumly watched the minutes on her lighted mobile phone screen tick away; six fifty six, six fifty-seven. She couldn’t sleep.

The Bitch would probably phone at about seven am, she usually did, or texted. These were now the only ways Zoe could be contacted. She’d had to cancel all her social media accounts after The Bitch had posted that Youtube video of her dusting her flat from top to bottom - ‘Zoe the Wonder Cleaner’ - with a link to her Facebook page; ‘only £2.53 an hour, distance no object’.

The ochrous yellow early spring morning light seeped through the newspaper sellotaped to the window. Zoe spun her legs round on the mattress and levered herself upright on the small packing case that did duty as a bedside table. Not that there was a bed for it to be beside, these days. It wasn’t until you actually tried sleeping on a mattress on the floor that you realised what a cushy number an actual bed was.

Just as she’d put herself under the curtainless shower, the phone rang. Cursing, she wrenched the tap closed and ran, dripping, to the bedroom and snatched it up. “Yes. Be round. Eight O’clock sharp. Yes, and I’ll take Beebie for his walk afterwards.” She threw the phone down on the bed and went back into the shower. Cleaning The Bitch’s flat had lately become even more of a trial; you could hardly move in the place; two beds, two bookcases, two sofas…

Beebie was The Bitch’s newly acquired Poodle, a curly-coated black monster (not the miniature sort) with a penchant for chasing toddlers and pensioners across grubby Masons’ Fields. Several enraged citizens had already threatened to report Zoe for having a dog out of control. It was only a matter of time before someone did, at which point her life would become even more shit, if that were possible.

Yesterday, The Bitch had mentioned that things were getting very hectic at her day job at the accountancy firm; she might have to start bringing work home …

 

 

-0000-

Zoe contemplated, at different times: becoming a nun; running away to South America; joining the hare krishnas; suicide. In her more lucid moments, she thought of countersuing – sure, coercive domestic chores and furniture theft weren’t exactly in the same league as GBH or attempted murder, but the penalties might just be enough to give The Bitch pause for thought. Would she want to risk a year or so behind bars herself for the pleasure of seeing Zoe doing a ten-stretch?

She’d turned all this over in her mind thousands of times, while she waited, usually vainly, for sleep to come.

If The Bitch really was going to sue, would she wait until after the film was released? That would be logical; she wouldn’t want to risk her acting career by getting Deadly Horseplay embroiled in a legal case, with all copies of the film impounded. Zoe’s own acting career was in smithereens already. Actually, she wished that the wretched film had never existed; if only she could turn the clock back … hang on!

 

After she’d deposited Beebie into the loving arms of The Bitch and promised to be back at six, she hurried down Granby Road to the small business complex that housed the film production company. The place would be deserted, she knew.

 

 

-0000-

The director ushered the two executives from the distribution company to their seats. “Well, it’s all here for you. I’ll just switch on the old computer. Not sure how we go about copying it for you, but I guess I’m dealing with a couple of tech-savvy guys here … sure you can give me guidance. Meanwhile, while we wait for this thing to warm up, can I offer you a cup of coffee – or tea, even?”

“Coffee for me,” said the dark suited guy. “Nothing for me,” said the one in the open-necked shirt.

The director placed the yellow and white mug on the small table in front of the guy from the studio, then sat behind one of the two computers on his desk, the one reserved for Deadly Horseplay and which housed the only copy. (His wife was always on at him to get a Cloud account set up, but he’d never got round to it.) He tapped the keyboard a couple of times, then repeatedly, frantically. “I’m sorry guys…I seem to be having a little bit of a technical issue – never had anything quite like this happen before…”

‘Primary Master Drive: None

No bootable device found.’

The cursor blinked bleakly on and off on the black screen.