Clive Barker - Books Of Blood Vol 1

It worked wonders. There were hints of sun between the clouds now; she sniffed and unbuckled his belt, letting his heat dry out the last of the rain. His fingers were finding the lacy edge of her panties, and she was sighing as he investigated her, gently but not too gently, insistent but never too insistent. Somewhere along the line she knocked over the vodka bottle but neither of them cared to stop and right it, so it sloshed on to the floor off the edge of the table, counter pointing her instructions, his gasps.

Then the bloody door opened, and a draught blew up between them, cooling the point at issue.

Galloway almost turned round, then realized he was unbuckled, and stared instead into the mirror behind Diane to see the intruder’s face. It was Lichfield. He was looking straight at Galloway, his face impassive.

‘I’m sorry, I should have knocked.’

His voice was as smooth as whipped cream, betraying nary a tremor of embarrassment. Galloway wedged himself away, buckled up his belt and turned to Lichfield, silently cursing his burning cheeks.

‘Yes.. . it would have been polite,’ he said.

‘Again, my apologies. I wanted a word with—‘ his eyes, so deep-set they were unfathomable, were on Diane ‘— your star,’ he said.

Galloway could practically feel Diane’s ego expand at the word. The approach confounded him: had Lichfield undergone a volte-face? Was he coming here, the repentant admirer, to kneel at the feet of greatness?

‘I would appreciate a word with the lady in private, if that were possible,’ the mellow voice went on.

‘Well, we were just —‘

‘Of course,’ Diane interrupted. ‘Just allow me a mo-ment, would you?’

She was immediately on top of the situation, tears forgotten.

‘I’ll be just outside,’ said Lichfield, already taking his leave.

Before he had closed the door behind him Diane was in front of the mirror, tissue-wrapped finger skirting her eye to divert a rivulet of mascara.

‘Well,’ she was cooing, ‘how lovely to have a well-wisher. Do you know who he is?’

‘His name’s Lichfield,’ Galloway told her. ‘He used to be a trustee of the theatre.’

‘Maybe he wants to offer me something.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Oh don’t be such a drag Terence,’ she snarled. ‘You just can’t bear to have anyone else get any attention, can you?’

‘My mistake.’

She peered at her eyes.

‘How do I look?’ she asked.

‘Fine.’

‘I’m sorry about before.’

‘Before?’

‘You know.’

‘Oh... yes.’

‘I’ll see you in the pub, eh?’

He was summarily dismissed apparently, his function as lover or confidante no longer required.

In the chilly corridor outside the dressing room Lichfield was waiting patiently. Though the lights were better here than on the ill-lit stage, and he was closer now than he’d been the night before, Galloway could still not quite make out the face under the wide brim. There was something

— what was the idea buzzing in his head? — something artificial about Lichfield’s features. The flesh of his face didn’t move as interlocking system of muscle and tendon, it was too stiff, too pink, almost like scar-tissue.

‘She’s not quite ready,’ Galloway told him.

‘She’s a lovely woman,’ Lichfield purred.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t blame you...‘

‘Um.’

‘She’s no actress though.’

‘You’re not going to interfere are you, Lichfield? I won’t let you.’

‘Perish the thought.’

The voyeuristic pleasure Lichfield had plainly taken in his embarrassment made Galloway less respectful than he’d been.

‘I won’t have you upsetting her —‘

‘My interests are your interests, Terence. All I want to do is see this production prosper, believe me. Am I likely, under those circumstances, to alarm your Leading Lady? I’ll be as meek as a lamb, Terence.’

‘Whatever you are,’ came the testy reply, ‘you’re no lamb.’

The smile appeared again on Lichfield’s face, the tissue round his mouth barely stretching to accommodate his expression.

Galloway retired to the pub with that predatory sickle of teeth fixed in his mind, anxious for no reason he could focus upon.

In the mirrored cell of her dressing-room Diane Duvall was just about ready to play her scene. ‘You may come in now, Mr Lichfield,’ she announced. He was in the doorway before the last syllable of his name had died on her lips.

‘Miss Duvall,’ he bowed slightly in deference to her. She smiled; so courteous. ‘Will you please forgive my blundering in earlier on?’

She looked coy; it always melted men.

‘Mr Galloway—‘ she began.

‘A very insistent young man, I think.’

‘Yes.’

‘Not above pressing his attentions on his Leading Lady, perhaps?’

She frowned a little, a dancing pucker where the plucked arches of her brows converged.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Most unprofessional of him,’ Lichfield said. ‘But for-give me — an understandable ardour.’

She moved upstage of him, towards the lights of her mirror, and turned, knowing they would back-light her hair more flatteringly.

‘Well, Mr Lichfield, what can I do for you?’

‘This is frankly a delicate matter,’ said Lichfield. ‘The bitter fact is — how shall I put this? — your talents are not ideally suited to this production. Your style lacks delicacy.’

There was a silence for two beats. She sniffed, thought about the inference of the remark, and then moved out of centre-stage towards the door. She didn’t like the way this scene had begun. She was expecting an admirer, and instead she had a critic on her hands.

‘Get out!’ she said, her voice like slate.

‘Miss Duvall —‘

‘You heard me.’

‘You’re not comfortable as Viola, are you?’ Lichfield continued, as though the star had said nothing. ‘None of your bloody business,’ she spat back.

‘But it is. I saw the rehearsals. You were bland, unpersuasive. The comedy is flat, the reunion scene —it should break our hearts — is leaden.’

‘I don’t need your opinion, thank you.’

‘You have no style —‘

‘Piss off.’

‘No presence and no style. I’m sure on the television you are radiance itself, but the stage requires a special truth, a soulfulness you, frankly, lack.’

The scene was hotting up. She wanted to hit him, but she couldn’t find the proper motivation. She couldn’t take this faded poseur seriously. He was more musical comedy than melodrama, with his neat grey gloves, and his neat grey cravat. Stupid, waspish queen, what did he know about acting?

‘Get out before I call the Stage Manager,’ she said, but he stepped between her and the door.

A rape scene? Was that what they were playing? Had he got the hots for her? God forbid.

‘My wife,’ he was saying, ‘has played Viola —‘

‘Good for her.’

‘— and she feels she could breathe a little more life into the role than you.’

‘We open tomorrow,’ she found herself replying, as though defending her presence. Why the hell was she trying to reason with him; barging in here and making these terrible remarks. Maybe because she was just a little afraid. His breath, close to her now, smelt of expensive chocolate.

‘She knows the role by heart.’

‘The part’s mine. And I’m doing it. I’m doing it even if I’m the worst Viola in theatrical history, all right?’

She was trying to keep her composure, but it was difficult. Something about him made her nervous. It wasn’t violence she feared from him: but she feared something.

‘I’m afraid I have already promised the part to my wife.’