Alek Popov - Mission London

Katya enjoyed that scenario: ‘The Decoration of the Christmas Tree’ as she had jokingly dubbed it. Rube would unlock the safe behind his desk and take out the treasures, one by one. The diamond necklace of Hera. The Onyx Eye. The Blue Moon. The necklace of Isabella of Castile. The strings of pearls of Cassandra. The Bracelet of Fire and Ice. The Medallion of the Ethiopian Princess. The Sapphire of the Dragon. The Chain of Diamond Tears. The stones radiated a cold, which reached all the way to her clean-shaven pubis. She felt their weight — to the last carat. Those priceless items rarely even made it as far as the window display. Normally they were made to order for a small circle of select clients who preferred to invest their money in things of permanent value. Bankers, film stars, producers of goods for mass consumption, and recently (horrors!) even Russians. Deep within his soul, Rube was convinced that these people were unworthy of his jewels. His dream was to work for the Palace. He believed that noble gems only shone correctly when seen against Noble skin. Skin unhampered by the annoying shadow of clothes, glowing in its natural nakedness. And here she was, standing in front of him — Princess Diana herself, glistening as though she were a freshly polished pearl. From the tiara encrusted with gems, to the anklets with diamond hearts, her body was bathed in blinding sparkles. Rube contemplated her in silence. His heart climbed slowly into his throat and his adam’s-apple began to pulsate like an iguana’s. Katya could also feel that she was losing her self-control. Her body-heat had unlocked the energy of the gems; their glow cut through her skin, pouring streams of light into her veins. She felt dizzy, softened, and fluffy like an egg-white beaten into the form of an opening rose. At that moment, it would have been enough for Rube to raise his hand and dip his fingers into the sweet cream of her body, but he never did. Instead he would take his camera and take careful pictures of her from every possible angle. After which, all the treasures disappeared into his cold safe.

As she took the tube to Camden Town, Katya took out her copy of The Veteran & the Princess and reread it. The part was far from difficult, but on the whole the play struck her as a bit repulsive. Maybe it was the yoghurt. She asked herself whether that was one client’s requirements, or whether it had been the artistic addition of Mr Munroe? Recently her relationship with the scriptwriter had cooled considerably. Katerina had dared to edit one of his scripts and he had created a huge ruckus as a result. She realised that if Thomas Munroe so desired, her parts would become even more repulsive, therefore she sensibly stopped poking her nose into his business. He obviously held grudges.

The agency was based in a run-down three-floor building crammed into some back-alley near Camden Market. The surroundings consisted of old industrial workshops and warehouses. At the end of the alley there was an ‘alternative’ bar, whence often chilling noises emanated. From the outside the building looked unoccupied, but the few neighbours there were had noticed a long time ago that the place was the centre of an intense, though secretive, social scene. Various people went in and out of the run-down entrance who were vaguely reminiscent of famous personalities. There were often taxis out front, and every so often a luxurious limousine. But there were no adverts or other signs at the entrance to shed light on the purpose of these visits. After some time, visitors usually noticed a grimy plastic plaque stuck above the doorbell. ‘Famous Connections’ was engraved in it.

Katya pushed the buzzer, but heard nothing. In spite of this, after just a short pause, a tall man opened the door dressed as a porter with the face of one whose trousers were stuck deep between his arse cheeks.

“Hi Cole!”

“Hi-i-i!” he replied slowly and shut the door behind her.

She ran up the stairs. The first and third floors were full of junk and practically unused. The second consisted of a spacious hall, divided by thin partitions walls into small make-up rooms. The furnishings were simple and businesslike. The floors were carpeted in ubiquitous faceless grey tiles. No particular investment: it was one of those companies that set up or moved out overnight. Every time Katya came here she had the awful premonition that she would find it empty.

Today, however, all the little cubicles were full and the actors buzzed around like bees. Barry Longfellow’s office could be found at the far end. The blinds were open and one could see him talking on the phone. He waved to her cheerfully. Barry was Ziebling’s number two in the agency. He was the Casting Manager, Executive Producer and Executive Director all at the same time. Ziebling himself rarely showed his face in the ‘Factory’, as he liked to call the Camden building. He had a far more prestigious office, somewhere in Pimlico, from which he pulled the strings. Katya had never been there. After she had passed the ‘caviar test’, Barry had offered her a sixty-performance deal, got her to sign a confidentiality agreement, and only then showed her the Factory.

She was now a part of the troupe.

The cubicles had no doors, so Katya caught glimpses of her colleagues as they carefully prepared themselves for their own little shows. She caught sight of Baroness Thatcher, Gorbachev, Liam Gallagher, Sir Elton John, Ulrika Johnson, President Clinton, and a stack of other celebs from all walks of life, all the way down to the Nobel Laureate, Professor Hawking. There were even some zombies, such as Benny Hill, John Lennon, and, of course, her good self: Diana, Princess of Wales. She sometimes felt their envy. No one else had a hope of reaching her level. She was the best: sixty performances in two months! Now that was impressive!

‘Hi Hawking,’ she said, taking a few steps back and looking curiously into his cubicle, ‘What’s up?’

‘I’m training, can’t you see?’ he mumbled.

‘Hawking’, better known as Samuel Fogg, was sitting in that well-known pose in a wheelchair, manipulating some new gadget, concentrating deeply. It looked like a cybernetic arm, although it was almost two yards long, and was capped by an impressive artificial penis. The mechanism was tied into the small joystick-gadget on the arm of the chair. Sam was training himself to be able to slip the uber-vibrator into the centre of a loo-roll, which had been fixed to the opposite wall. Without much success as yet.

‘Shit!’ he roared.

The demand for ‘Hawking’ was far smaller than that for Lady Di. He had been hired twice a month by three wealthy, and strict, lesbians to explain Black-Hole Theory, which they regarded both as an ideological pillar offeminism and a powerful aphrodisiac. As a result of those academic requirements, Mr Fogg, an uneducated and ordinary youth, had to commit to memory the works of that great physicist, and later to recite them word for word, — no easy task with the speech machine in a darkened auditorium — over and over, until the three rug-munchers reached climax amidst crying and moaning reminiscent of a jackals’ feast. In reality, Fogg had no objections to sinking his instrument into any one of them, and if possible all three of them one after the other, for which reason he had begged Munroe to make some changes to his part. The great dramaturge was unreceptive at first, ‘Are you trying to screw to whole thing up?!!’ he had yelled, ‘They’re paying for Hawking, not lice-ridden, horny Sam! Or maybe you disagree?!’ That was Mister Fogg’s only role and he needed it, to the extent that he would go to any lengths to keep it. He continued to cram physics and recite Black-Hole Theory, reaching the stage whereby he actually began to understand it. Meanwhile, Munroe decided that Sam’s idea was not so bad after all and after a brief consultation with the clients, he came up with a new variation on the scenario, in accordance with the fundaments of the character. Which was why Sam was now struggling, without success, to master the newly approved gadget.