Beauties and the Beast (8 page)

“Baby we party in every town in the world.” He leaned over and kissed her. The response was disappointing. The lips moved in all directions. But they didn't open. He pulled away. “You're not a very good kisser,” he said.

Mandy's face went red. “I haven't had much practice.”

Billy grinned the Winter grin, the grin that sent Mandy's heart racing. “Well how about we find somewhere quiet and I'll give you some lessons?”

He swallowed his drink in one gulp. “Drink up. We'll get some more.” As Mandy struggled to down her drink, Billy picked up a half empty bottle of coke and filled it with vodka and then went back to Mandy. His drummer stopped him on the way. “Take it easy man, she's young.”

“She doesn't look so young to me,” said Billy, with a wink.

“Your funeral, man,” said the drummer, and Billy moved on. He poured some drink into Mandy's glass and took a long swig from the bottle. The fizz made him burp. Mandy giggled. Billy held out his hand. “Let's find some privacy,” he said. “Then I can teach you about kissing - and anything else you wanna learn.” He winked and grinned. Mandy giggled, but she took his hand. He led her from the room. In his suite there was always a room left for Billy Winter, a no-go area, a world of privacy that nobody dared enter.

Mandy stopped still when she saw the bed that Billy was leading her to. “Come on,” he said, taking a swig of drink. “It's gonna be fun, man.” Mandy reluctantly followed him. He sat down and took another drink. It was a long one, the one that took him over the edge. His head began to hum and his sight blurred “Finish it,” he commanded. “And then come here.”

Mandy drank the drink as quickly as she could and stood there blinking owlishly. She had never experienced what she was feeling before; floating, dizzy out of control. She staggered and Billy leaned forward and caught her.

“Come here pretty baby,” he pulled her close to him and the glass fell from her hand. He kissed her on the lips. Forced them open and his tongue was a wriggling intruder. Mandy gagged and tired to pull back, but Billy didn't notice. “That was more like a kiss.” He did it again and this time he ran his hand under her white cotton top. Her breasts were firm, almost hard.

Mandy pulled away. Her mind said “no,” but her mouth wouldn't work. From then it was a nightmare of pain and terror for her and a mist-laden frenzy of lust for him. He stood, and before she could move had stripped off his clothes. She screamed, but he didn't hear, he ripped her clothes off. He saw her firm body and hairless thighs. Hairless, they couldn't be? His hands groped, fighting a writhing bundle of terror. His strength surged. He found the spot. She screamed louder, the mist grew thicker. He rolled on her. Her breath sighed from her body. Then there was no noise. He thrust and met solid resistance which infuriated him. He lifted his torso, Mandy breathed again. He thrust again. Then there was penetration, heat, tearing, and screams of agony. It didn't matter. He thrust and thrust again. It was sheer savagery.

In the mist his sanctuary was violated. The terror of the screams, the wails of agony and violation had seared through the noise of the party. Billy's drummer and Katy burst into the room. Katy screamed in horror. The drummer shot forward, hoisted Billy in the air, and threw him on the ground. “You, you're crazy, man,” he cried out. Billy lay on the floor, vomit flew from his mouth. Katy lashed out of at the foetal figure with her clog-shoed foot. “You bastard,” she screamed, “you bastard. She's a baby. She's only twelve years old.” Then she ran to Mandy to try to comfort her. Her young cousins lay on the bed, spread eagled. She was breathing in huge gasps, punctuated by a persistent, one-key scream.

The graphics became more blurred, harder to differentiate between characters and background. Then, suddenly: “Game Over.” Billy blinked and tore his gaze away from the screen. His heart was hammering and his eyes wild. Tears fell from his eyes, no, it was sweat pouring down. His eyes found Angela, but there was no comfort.

“Mandy?” was the only word she uttered.

“I couldn't help it.” It was a cry of anguish.

“Why, because you got carried away Billy?” It was the hard-edged voice of Diana.

“Out of control Billy?” Angela closed in.

“Didn't she scream Billy?”

“Try to stop you Billy?”

“You hurt her, Billy.”

“Made her bleed Billy.”

“There was a mist.” Billy was sobbing. “I didn't know what I was doing.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Anyway, I made it up to her.

“I'm so pleased, Billy,” Angela purred.

“I gave her a lot of money.”

“To shut her up,” Diana shook her head softly. “That was hardly altruistic.”

“Just leave me alone.” Billy's voice rose to a pitch above high C.

“What's she doing now?” The question came from a conversational Angela.

“How the hell should I know?”

“She's a lesbian, Billy,” continued Angela. “She's having a wonderful relationship with her gym teacher. Seems she never could face the thought of being with a man again. She was so pretty too. Still, one sex loses another sex gains. It's all fair in love and war isn't it, Billy? “She consulted the screen. “Word's got round. Treat her gently and she's anybody's. I wonder how she'd have taken life if you hadn't been there Billy.”

“I don't know. “Anguish. “I can't turn back the clock can I?”

“Would you if you could?”

Billy gazed with pain-filled eyes at Diana. “For fuck's sake, what do you think I am?”

Diana turned her back, prim and proper. “Thank you Billy.”

“What?” The change of tone bewildered Billy.

“I said ‘thank you.'“

“Is that it then?” There was a rising feeling of hope. “Audition over?”

The hope dissipated as Angela spoke. “No,” she whispered. Billy swore he could see smoke coming from her nostrils. “We've finished out little chat. The audition comes later. Take a break now. You'll find the green room down the corridor, to the right. You'll find everything you need there to freshen up.”

“I can go?”

“Only as far as we let you,” Angela laughed a piercing laugh; Snow White's mother's laugh. Billy was in such a hurry to escape that he left his Fender behind.

A wave of fear swept over Mickey. He leapt to his feet, he felt alone and afraid. “I could do with a cup of tea myself,” he stammered.

“Not yet, Mr Finnegan.” Angela's mocking tone made the hairs on his neck rise. He sat down slowly, trying to hide the rapid beat of his heart. His mouth was dry.

Chapter Nine

In the toilet Thornton stared at the little man standing by him. “What on earth are you talking about? Who are you?”

The cherub stared timorously around him. “I have not the time to explain,” he said. “But please. Do not accept a role. Do anything, but do not accept the role.” There was the sound of footsteps and the little man turned and fled from the room. Thornton shook his head, perplexed. Then, zipped up his trousers and moved to the sink to wash his hands. The footsteps came closer. Thornton felt impelled to hurry his toilet and, with wet hands, pushed open the white-painted door and hurried into the passageway.

He almost ran into Billy Winter who had stopped at the door. Winter leaned against the wall as he recognised the bulk of the actor. “Shit man, you scared the life out of me.”

Thornton stood breathing heavily. “You didn't do a lot for my blood pressure either. What are you doing here?”

“They sent me to find the Green Room, take a break,” said the singer. He looked at the door through which Thornton had just walked. “Is that it?”

“No,” said Thornton, “It's the men's room.”

Winter looked round. “They said the door to the right.”

“That is correct,” said Thornton. “It's the men's room.”

Winter pushed past Thornton and opened the door. He peered inside and then gave Thornton a pitying look. “Do you lie just for the sake of it?” he asked. He pushed the door wide open and marched through. Wondering, Thornton followed.

His mouth gaped when he walked inside, for the antiseptic men's room was no longer there. It had been replaced by a warm and friendly Green Room. The walls were painted a gentle hue of blue-grey with woodwork done in golden orange. There were comfortable arm chairs, a hot food bar that steamed delicious odours, a refrigerated table of cold cuts, from venison to smoked salmon and caviar. The salad and fruit bar were straight out of a five star hotel. There was also an impressive wine rack and several white plastic tables and chairs. There was an archway behind the hot food bar that led off to who knows where and inset into the wall a strangely out of place antique oak door, pitted with worm holes. The lock was darkened brass and a huge key protruded from it.

Billy was staring at his surroundings. “Jesus,” he said finally. “What about this, man?” He walked round touching things. “I mean, it's cool, man. But, it's wrong. You know what I mean? It's
new.

“This place, it's shiny, like it was made today, but the rest of the place - mouldy, dirty, dark, and cold. They just don't mix, man.” He moved to the door and was studying it as Thornton tried to come to terms with what was happening.

“I don't understand,” he muttered. “I just left this room, and it was a men's room I tell you.”

“I know you've got a low mind,” said Billy, “but this ain't no men's room; a gentlemen's room maybe. Was it dark when you came in? Perhaps you came in here in the dark and went through the big door there.”

“No,” Thornton shook his head. “I pushed open the door the same as you did.” He went to the door. It was the same white painted flat surface. “I came in and, this was a men's room. Am I going insane?”

Billy had moved on to the hot food bar. He sniffed and was suddenly starving. The sight of crinkly, brown-skinned barbecued chicken made his mouth water. He grabbed at a plate and pulled a complete chicken onto it. Then, with his stomach groaning, he sped to a table. He sat and tore off a leg. The meat was succulent, juicy and filled with flavour. It snatched a memory from his subconscious.

Sunday in the summer, lazy days, warm winds and the windows open. His father, benign and belching up the gas created by his lunchtime ale was ready to carve the roast. The chicken was not frozen in a plastic bag; it was no washed-out battery bird, but straight from the farm on the outskirts of the village.

“God did I use to live in a village?” The mellowness was replaced by a world rushing by.

Thornton gave up trying to work out this time warp, this extra dimension. The sight of Billy, almost Neanderthal in tearing the meat from the bones of the chicken, and the tantalising mix of aromas that emanated from the bar drove his own gastric juices crazy.

He moved to bar and inspected it closely. Oysters! Gleaming fresh, with the smell of the sea still on them, cracked ice, barely melting. Then, through the smells one began to separate, the raw spicy aroma of jambalaya, the Creole stew of fish and crustaceans. He followed his nose and there it sat, steaming, dark, and red-brown. Pink-fleshed prawns and lobster pieces floated simmering on the surface. It was the most perfect dish he'd seen outside of New Orleans.

He grabbed a bowl and then greedily ladled the mixture into it. His hands were trembling and his mouth salivating as he carried it to table as far away from Billy as he could get. He then went back to the servery to pick up a just warm wholemeal role and a large soup spoon. Then he sat, eyes glistening as he slurped and chewed and swallowed his way through the food. He had a hunger he felt he could never appease and table manners they would never contemplate at Maxim's.

But Billy didn't notice the noisy slurping. The chicken bones were stripped of flesh and lay scattered on the table. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and made for the cold cuts. Something told him there was pate de foie gras. Bugger with the geese, their livers made the greatest pate, mouth-watering, delicious; rare and expensive. His eyes gleamed when he saw the bowl; the pate was there, virgin. The thin layer of cold butter protected the smell, the taste of brandy, and the subtle hint of garlic and spices. He grabbed a spoon and broke open the crust. The smell that came out told him this was the best. It came direct from France and was so fresh. France? Was he in France? His mind stirred and he saw Thornton hunched over his bowl of jambalaya.

The aroma of pate hung in his nostrils and he dug deep into the bowl. He laid a huge spoonful of the delicately pink-tinged mixture into a gold-rimmed plate. The water biscuits, guaranteed to take nothing from the taste of the food and yet add that special texture, were sitting, white with golden flecks, by the pate.

He scooped up a handful and laid them on the plate. Then he picked up the silver knife and hurried back to his bone-strewn table.

He was just spreading the pate, less reverently than he should, onto a biscuit when Mickey Finnegan walked into the room. The podgy comic had a glazed look in his eye, but neither of the other men noticed. They were too intent on cramming food into their stomachs.

Mickey's brain was buzzing and tired. What he needed more than anything else was a hot cup of sweet, milk-laden tea, something to boost his sugar level. He dragged his eyes from the men and focused instantly on a large stainless steel urn. There were delicate china teacups with Royal Albert designs and one-person brown china teapots standing in a row, lids off, spoon inset. He picked one up and sniffed. Earl Grey, leaf, not bags. The sight and smell of it helped to heal his frayed nerve ends.

He lifted a pot and filled it from the urn. He waited patiently for the leaves to fuse into tea and then he poured into a cup. Fragrance lifted in the steam. He heaped a spoon with sugar and let it into the fusion. He stirred gently and then added milk. The result did more for him that the best Napoleon brandy. It began to soothe away the hurt the women had inflicted on him; began to heal the sores they had opened and left bleeding. He shuddered at the memory. And yet it hadn't started so painfully... Then he remembered the message. He put down his tea and spoke loudly. “Mr Thornton,” he said.

Thornton jerked his head away from the bowl of soup. The liquid spilled down his chin and onto his black silk polo-necked shirt. The stain spread slowly, but Thornton didn't move. “What?” he muttered.

“They want to see you.”

Thornton dropped his spoon. It splashed into the soup. Then there was more splatter on his shirt. He pushed his chair back. “Me?”

Mickey nodded. “And I'd be quick about it if I were you.”

Thornton pushed back his chair so violently that it rocked over. Then he hurried from the room carried on wings of an unknown but gnawing fear.

Mickey gave a grimace. He had some idea of what the man was in for. After all, he'd just gone through it.