Creed (2 page)

He stubbed out the thin cigarette on the nearest coffin. They should be arriving soon, the bereaved and the vultures and those who
really
knew the deceased and wanted to make sure the old hag was properly nailed down.

Creed had never heard, never read, a single kind word about Lily Neverless, the actress (actress? She’d played the same part for nigh on sixty years, and that playing was easy because she had always played herself) who was about to be buried today in this rich man’s boneyard. Neurotic, harpy bitch; that had been Lily in life and on stage and screen. Yet the public adored her
because
she was bad, real bad, larger-than-life
bad
. That was her trademark. Whereas Joan Crawford had battered her kids with coathangers, old Lil had bludgeoned her husbands (four in all) with public and eagerly greeted pronouncements on their individual shortcomings. They were mean-hearted and tight-fisted, they were miserably inadequate lovers, they were cheats, they were drunkards, they were pathetic, they were
pigs
. One of them, she proclaimed to help divorce proceedings along, was
QUEE-AR
– that’s the way Lily enunciated the condition in her curious European-Americanized accent:
QUEE-AR
! This particular poor devil’s lawsuit against her following the divorce never even scratched court: a cardiac arrest finished him on the day his brief was briefed. To add irony, it was he who had sired Lily’s only child, although even this had now been called into doubt because of Lily’s revelation. Another shared a similar fate healthwise, only this one’s heart attack left him vegetabalized rather than finalized. In its way, this was even more cruel, for he was comparatively young, twenty years junior to old Lil, in fact (and this before toy-boys were commonplace).

It took less than three months for Lily to unload the veg, and legend had it that mental cruelty on
his
part was cited in her petition for divorce. Maybe the slurpy sounds he made when he tried to communicate (apparently the best he could do with a tongue as flaccid as a spent penis) had a cutting edge of sarcasm to them that offended her sensitive nature; or perhaps the fact that he had to be spoon-fed by a full-time nurse at the frequent and lavish dinner parties that Lily threw, an embarrassing and conversation-stilting business no doubt, put too much of a strain on her endeavours to be the gay hostess. Whatever, she got her divorce.

Interestingly, her first husband had disappeared into the rainforests of Brazil never to be heard of again after only ten months of marriage. At the time he was a minor-league Hollywood star (who’d featured in more than one jungle movie, as it happens, although all had been shot on the Warner Bros’ back lot) and Lily was fresh over from Europe where she’d been a minor queen bitch of the theatre. Only God, the actor, himself, and Lily knew what had prompted her husband to stomp off into the green like that, but the first two were incommunicado and the last one wasn’t saying.

However, the real kicker was the way in which her fourth husband shed his shackles.

This poor old boy – he was older, much older, than Lil – decided to euthanize himself on his eighty-seventh birthday. Euthanize is the wrong word, actually, because the method he chose was far from painless; he was also, for his years, in a splendid state of health, and his mind was in reasonable order apart from an occasional meandering through all his yesterdays. So nobody understood why he had pulverized his favourite St Louis brandy glass in a food blender to make himself a butter and granule sandwich. Surely, they reasoned, there had to be easier ways to exit, particularly at that frail age. By all means use a brandy glass, but for God’s sake, fill it to the brim with the finest brandy, use it to wash down as many sleeping pills or pain-killers as you can lay your hands on, and toast yourself to peace everlasting before pulling on a clingfilm balaclava. The note he had left explained nothing. ‘Had enough,’ it said in scrawly handwriting. Still, by then Lily had learned to wear black with considerable style, and her wakes (the invalid husband had been long dead and buried, and the jungle rover’s undoubted death had been celebrated in his absence) were joyous affairs.

Now this was her own funeral and there must have been those present who, if not allowed to dance in the aisles, would surely have jiggled their buttocks to the requiem, for she’d made an awful lot of enemies in the business and just as many out of it. However, as mentioned, the public had adored her because, when all was said and done, Lily Neverless was a great actress when playing the Woman-You-Love-to-Hate. It’s believed that even Bette Davis had envied her splenetic image.

Creed stamped his feet, the big toe on either one numb with the cold. Bad circulation, he told himself, and smoking doesn’t help. He reached into a top pocket of his combat jacket – the kind of loose, many pocketed thigh-length coat worn by the US infantry during the Second World War – and drew out a cigarette. He stuck it between his lips and squeezed by the tripod to press his face between the rusted struts of the barred door. His eyes swivelled left and right as his hand delved into another pocket for a lighter.

Action! Shiny black shapes gliding solemnly through the gravestone estate, the long hearse carrying Lily’s dead body leading the way. About bloody time. What the hell they’d found to eulogize over beat him, but then, he supposed, showbiz was all to do with pretence and nothing to do with reality.

He moved back into the shadows as the cortège drew nearer, his cigarette remaining unlit. He checked the view-finder once more, then stood poised, waiting.

Mourners appeared from the cars and trailed respectfully after the coffin-bearers; here and there handkerchiefs dabbed at cheeks. Maybe some of them loved you after all, Lil, mused Creed as he focused, searching the gathering for ‘faces’. Ah, some reasonable ones. Gielgud was there, and Dame What-sername – what
was
her name? Let the picture editor identify her from the contacts, that’s what he was paid for. Attenborough? Looked like him. And Johnny Mills, yeah, that was certainly him. And that one – Christ, was
he
still alive? He hadn’t made a movie in fifteen years, at least. Looking at him it was no wonder – senility had obviously set in.

A gaggle of old stars was in attendance, all of them no doubt wondering who was next to go. Now who was that one over there? From a different generation to Lily’s. Maggie Smith? Looked like her, but then off-stage she looked like anybody. There was Judi Dench, looking nothing like a Dame. A sprinkling of well-known directors, an impresario or two.

Creed began pressing the shutter release, aiming, focusing, clicking, moving on. Okay, Sir John, is that a hint of a smile I see? Come on, don’t be so bloody enigmatic, you’re not on stage now. A little discreet grin is all I want. Gotcha. Thank you. Next.

That one. Yeah, I know that face. Character parts of distinction was this one’s speciality. Something Elliot. Dennis, or – no, Denholm, that was it. Is that a smirk I see? Well, well.
Click.

Creed continued snapping, perfectly happy in his work and no longer feeling the cold. He changed film and allowed the camera lens to roam here and there, the tripod holding it steady for each long shot, seeking out personalities among the general mill, mentally summoning up a story behind each cameo shot: the Minister for the Arts in deep conversation with a screen seductress of ‘sixties’ British comedies, whose penchant was for the ladies rather than the men; a huge-nosed chairman of the country’s leading chain-stores, whose reputation had been considerably enhanced by the ‘kiss and tell’ revelations of his last bimbo but two; the television newscaster, whose recent payrise had elevated him way beyond his station (or any other station, his disgruntled rival newscasters pointed out). Creed’s greatest hope was that an over-distraught person would leap on to the coffin as it was lowered into the ground, but common sense told him it just wouldn’t happen, because no one would be
that
upset over Lily’s departure (not even the accountants at Twentieth Century Fox, for she hadn’t made a box-office hit for many a year now).

He swapped over to his other Nikon, this one fitted with a zoom lens, and took general crowd stuff, only occasionally homing in on individuals.

He shook his head in disappointment when the party finally began to break up. There had been a small chance that Lily Neverless’ daughter, her only surviving kin as far as it was known, might have been allowed to attend. That could have brought some poignancy to the proceedings, especially with two white-coated orderlies by her side (all right, maybe they were more discreet nowadays, but that didn’t stop Creed’s imagination dramatizing or picturizing the scenario), but he guessed that whoever was in charge of her welfare nowadays had decided against letting her loose for the occasion. Pity.

When most of the crowd had drifted away, Creed moved further back into the tomb and lit the cigarette that had dangled cold from his lips throughout the session. The event was covered, he’d done his job; but where was
the
shot, where was the one that would make the other snappers, the rest of the pack that had been held at bay outside the cemetery gates along with the ghouls, sightseers and devoted fans, sick with envy?

He allowed himself a weary grin. That was the trouble with the young Turks nowadays – no balls. There were relatively few paparazzi left who took genuine risks or even
tried
to buck the system; they wanted it handed to them on a plate. True enough they’d kick, elbow and shove each other to get a clear shot, but cunning and
chutzpah
seemed to be in short supply. Creed, himself, had arrived at the upmarket boneyard just after six that morning – there’s dedication for you – and had driven around the high walls until he’d found a quiet spot in a country lane far away from the main gates. He had parked opposite, beneath some trees, then crossed over and used a small aluminium stepladder (often essential equipment) to reach the top of the wall. His camera bag and tripod had been lowered to the other side by a length of nylon string with a hook at one end; the same had drawn up the ladder after him. Creed had dropped into the cemetery and waited, crouched against the wall, until it was light enough to search for an open grave; if it hadn’t been dug the night before then he would have waited for the diggers to arrive and followed them to the spot. It was easier to find than he thought it would be, for there were virgin areas in the cemetery obviously reserved in advance for those who could afford the deposit (no pun intended). ‘
PLOT 1290 NEVERLESS
’ had been marked on a rough piece of board and planted atop the mound of damp earth beside the oblong pit.

Creed had almost yelped with delight when he scanned the locale and spied the grey mausoleum set on a low hillock not two hundred yards away. A perfect vantage point, provided some thoughtless bugger hadn’t locked its barred door.

Again he was in luck for, although rust made the handle difficult to turn, the door wasn’t locked. Why should it be? No one inside was going anywhere.

The horror-movie groan from the rarely used hinges was a little unsettling, and the unwholesome dank smell of the chamber itself hardly warmed the spirit, but Creed felt pleased with himself. He set up camp and began his vigil.

Four hours later it was all over, with nothing special to show. Decent enough crowd shots, a few close-ups of the faded and jaded, but nothing to set the juices flowing. Well, you couldn’t win ’em all; in fact, the aces were rare. Always another day, though, another dollar. New opportunities were always around the next corner. Be ready, be there.

Had Creed been as philosophical as this about his work he wouldn’t have screamed an expletive and kicked the coffin on the lowest tier. Stone and mould scraped off, leaving a scar as white as bone. Rather than apologize for the offence, Creed kicked the coffin again.

He turned back to the camera and tripod, one big toe no longer numbed by the cold but throbbing from the blow. Taking a last puff from the cigarette, he tossed it into a corner. His hand went to the small screw holding the Nikon to the tripod platform . . . and there it froze.

Not all the mourners had left yet, although even the diggers had finished their shovelling and wandered off. Someone was standing in the shadow of a tree.

Creed’s eyes narrowed for better definition before he remembered he had the means of magnification at hand. He bent to the viewfinder and carefully altered the camera’s angle.

Black shoes, dark trousers, grey raincoat – that’s all our photographer could see through the lens. He tilted the Nikon further, but the lurker’s head and shoulders were partly obscured by low foliage.

Now why was he hanging around after everyone else had left? And why was he hiding? – at least he seemed to be hiding. Was he a gatecrasher? Security would have been tight that morning and funeral liggers unwelcome. But then he himself had got in easily enough. Maybe he was just a hack covering the story.

Movement. The man was coming forward, ducking beneath the low branch. Grey gaberdine coat, scarf up around his face. Now he was pulling the scarf away. Christ, what a face! He was either very old, or had had a lot of worry. Certainly he was well past his sell-by date. He was looking around, making sure the coast was clear, strands of hair lying rigidly flat over his scalp as if welded there.

Creed exposed a single frame, then immediately wondered why. This guy was never going to be
the
shot: he was either an interloper, a journo, an acquaintance, or possibly an old flame of the deceased. Whatever, no way did he look or act like a
celeb
.