Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

Felicity rose very deliberately from the table, walked towards him, and pressing her body close to his, kissed his lips. Charles stood like a carved idol receiving the homage of the faithful. He gave nothing. ‘I think I had better go.’

‘Why?’ She used that word disconcertingly often.

‘Well, I… um… you know…’ It was difficult to think of a good reason at a moment like this.

‘If you don’t find me attractive, you can say so. I’ll survive.

‘It’s not that. You gotta believe me, it’s not that.’ He dropped into American to hide his confusion.

‘Are you worried about my age?’

‘Yes. Amongst other things.’

‘Listen, Charles. I am eighteen, which is not only two years above the age of consent, but is also now the age of majority. And I’m on the Pill, so you needn’t worry about that.’

Her frankness was very confusing. Charles felt himself blushing. ‘Um… you mean, you’re not a virgin?’

Her short derisive laugh made him feel suitably patronised. ‘Charles, I lost my virginity when I was twelve, and since then quite a few other things have happened.’ The weakness of the ending of her sentence again revealed her youth.

Charles could feel his resolve slackening, but made one last effort. ‘I’m too old for you, Felicity.’

‘You’re not as old as the man who had me first.’

‘Oh. Who was he?’

‘Marius Steen.’

The next day Charles was feeling elated. He had parted from Felicity on good terms after breakfast; she had returned to continue her courses. He’d rung Jacqui, and she was fine. To crown the day, he was going to film the death of Tick, the deformed coachman, and he enjoyed a bit of ham as much as any other actor.

They rehearsed the scene in the morning. Tick crept in through the window of the dining-room and surprised Lady Laetitia Winthrop playing at her virginals (a likely story). He carried a rope with which to bind her. When she saw him, she let out a little cry (that bit took ages to rehearse: every bit that required Lady Laetitia to do more than flash her tits took ages), then turned and ran to the end of the room. Tick cried out, ‘Not so fast, my proud beauty!’ (really), and pursued her. She ran up the stairs to the minstrels’ gallery with Tick in breathy pursuit. (That was filmed in long-shot from the other end of the room.) Then a quick close-up of Lady Laetitia cowering panic-stricken against the wall. (That took a long time too. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Jean-Luc Roussel; ‘panic-stricken, not bleeding constipated! Imagine he’s going to cut yer tits off!’) Then a long-shot from behind Sir Rupert Cartland’s shoulder as he forced open the dining-room door, saw the scene of Tick advancing menacingly on his beloved (or ‘that silly bitch’, as he always called her off the set), raised his pistol, cried, ‘No, you monster’ and shot the deformed coachman. Tick stopped and staggered. Cut to close-up of blood trickling from his face as he fell against the rail. Cut to shot of stuntman falling backwards over rail to the floor.

When the rehearsal was finally over, they adjourned for lunch in the billiard room, where the covers on the tables had a splendid buffet laid on them. Charles piled up his plate and sat on his own in the corner. To his surprise, two men came over and joined him. They were called Jem and Eric; he recognised them; they’d been around since the filming started. Jem was one of those burly figures who proliferate on film-sets. His role was ill-defined except to himself and other members of his union, but he spent most of his time carting scenery around and moving heavy props into position. Eric was a smaller, colourless man who worked in some clerical capacity in the production office. They never said much on the set except to each other. Nobody took much notice of them or expected them to start up any form of conversation, so Charles was surprised when Eric addressed him by name.

‘Yes?’

‘There’s a bit of a query on your contract,’ said Eric in his flat London voice. ‘Been a typing error on some of them. Maybe on yours. Anyway, we want to send a duplicate just in case. It doesn’t change anything.’

‘OK. Fine.’

‘Don’t seem to have your address. Where should we send it to?’

Charles gave him the address of Maurice Skellern Artistes.

‘Oh, we want it signed quickly. Wouldn’t it be better if we sent it to your home?’

‘No. My agent deals with all that kind of stuff.’

‘Oh. Oh well, fine. We’ll send it there then.’ And Jem and Eric wandered off.

It gave Charles an uncomfortable feeling. True, it might be a genuine enquiry, but it could be Nigel Steen relating him to Jacqui for the first time. If so, a new hiding-place must be found quickly. Yes, it was fishy. If a new contract had to be signed urgently, why hadn’t Eric brought it to him there and then, rather than posting it? Still, there was a bit of breathing space. Maurice would never give away the Hereford Road address and very few people knew it. Even friends. Charles hated the place so much he always arranged meetings in pubs, and never took anyone there. But the incident was disquieting.

He soon forgot it as the filming restarted. It was painfully slow. Lady Laetitia had forgotten all she’d been taught in the morning and everything had to be rehearsed again. Charles felt he would scream at another repetition of ‘Not so fast, my proud beauty!’ But progress was made and, shot by shot, Jean-Luc Roussel was satisfied. (‘Not bleeding marvellous, but it’ll have to do if we’re going to get it all in before the bleeding electricians have their bleeding break.’)

Eventually Lady Laetitia and Tick made it to the minstrels’ gallery. Then there was a long break as the cameras were set up for the dramatic shot over Sir Rupert Cartland’s shoulder. Make-up girls fluttered in and out with powder puffs. Electricians looked at their watches and slowly pushed their arc-lights about. Jem handed Sir Rupert his props. Sir Rupert complained that one of the buckles on his shoes was loose (the shot was only going to reveal his right ear and shoulder). Eventually all was ready. ‘The Zombie Walks: Scene 143, Take One’-the clapper-board clapped shut. Tick advanced on his prey cowering constipated against the wall. The doors of the dining-room burst open. Sir Rupert Cartland cried, ‘No, you monster’, and a shot rang out.

Charles Paris felt a searing pain as a bullet ripped into his flesh. He crumpled up in agony.

Charles really thought he was dying when he woke up the next morning. Cold tremors of fear kept shaking his whole body. It wasn’t the wound that worried him, though his arm still ached as though a steam-hammer had landed on it. Head and body felt disconnected and the foul taste in his mouth seemed to his waking mind a symptom of some terrible decay creeping over him from within.

For once it wasn’t alcohol, or at least not just alcohol. The Battle Hospital in Reading had given him a sedative to take if necessary when he was discharged. The wound was clean and dressed; there was no point in keeping him inside with such a shortage of hospital beds. So the film company organised a car to take him from Reading to Pangbourne. Jean-Luc Roussel himself had come to the hospital and fretted and fluttered about like a true Cockney sparrow. Steenway Productions were very anxious about the injury; it is the sort of thing all film companies dread, because it inevitably leads to enormous claims for compensation.

They had tried to find out how the accident had happened. The gun was a genuine late-Victorian revolver (another anachronism in a film so full of them that its period could be any time between 1700 and 1900). How live bullets had got into it no one could imagine. The props people said they hadn’t touched it; it had come like that from the place of hiring. The hiring firm were very affronted when rung up, and assured the film company that they only ever supplied blanks. No doubt a further investigation would follow.