Read Online The Disappearance Boy by Neil Bartlett - Free Book Online
Authors: Neil Bartlett
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applause which had greeted her entrance pattered away into nothing. The band, of course, carried on regardless. Mr Brookes took the half-empty glass, glared at her, and tossed back the ginger ale as angrily as if it were a neat and punishing vodka.
Then he just stood there. He looked for a moment as though he had half a mind to smash the glass at her feet – never mind the orchestra’s eyes, in the pit – but instead he punished her much more simply. Cutting all of the final business entirely, he let her struggle to keep her stained dress up over her breasts for a full sixteen bars of music; only then did he deign to give the cue to the flyman to bring in the tabs. Adding injury to insult, he deliberately left it to the very last minute to grab her by the wrist and tug her upstage of the descending wall of fabric. She staggered, tripped and almost fell again, and the laughter of the audience grew into ragged, jeering applause.
Reggie knew that something had gone badly wrong as soon as he crawled out. The band was still blaring out the music for the call on the other side of the curtain, but Mr Brookes was standing stock-still and with his face in shadow, his back pointedly turned. One hand was dangling the empty champagne glass, and the other was clenching and unclenching itself. Sandra, ten feet away, was shifting anxiously from foot to foot, one hand straying up to her wig, her shoulders and the tops of her breasts eerily white in the between-the-acts twilight. Mr Brookes turned.
‘D’you know what you are, Sandra?’
The words slit through the music on the other side of the tabs like a razor. She bit her damaged lip, and stuck her chin up bravely as he moved towards her.
‘No, Mr Brookes,’ she replied. ‘At this particular moment, I have no flippin’ idea who I am at all.’
‘Well, then, I’ll tell you,’ he said, gouging his words into the remaining space between their faces exactly, and ignoring the half-lit chaos around them.
‘You’re a girl in a million, you are. The one fucking girl in a million who can’t walk straight even before I’ve fucked her. So why don’t you sod off back to whichever agency it was I got you from and take your wan little tits with you? Your money’s at the stage door.’
Reg could see that she would have liked nothing better than to have signed off by raking her nails across his face, but she hesitated – and at that exact point, after a hurried bar’s rest, the band on the other side of the curtain launched into ‘The Sun in Old Toledo’, and the next act’s lighting blazed on up in the flies. The sudden overhead wash of pink and blue put the blood back into Sandra’s cheeks, and she almost managed a smile.
‘Well,’ she pronounced, tugging her fur up and dodging the stagehands who were coming on to clear the cabinet, ‘it’s been lovely working with you, and I do hope something comes along for you very soon, Mr Brookes.’
She kicked the satin of her falling ball gown out of the way, turned, took three strides, and then turned again at the wing, delivering her exit line over one still-bare shoulder like a real pro.
‘Like a lorry doing sixty miles an hour through a red light, for instance.’
A stagehand guffawed. Reggie wouldn’t have put it past Mr Brookes to lose it at that point – especially when the stage manager started hissing Places please, everybody , and tapping his clipboard at them – but all he did was stand there, still clutching that ridiculously empty glass, and watching Sandra stalk away. The stagehands set to work with a vengeance to get the cabinet offstage in time, and the two dancers of the Spanish speciality act dodged them in a swirl of ruffles and took up their places. The stage manager hissed again, and to Reggie’s astonishment Mr Brookes, still standing there, took the time to let his face melt into a wide, handsome and white-toothed smile – a real one. In desperation, the stage manager shouted into the flies, and
Then he just stood there. He looked for a moment as though he had half a mind to smash the glass at her feet – never mind the orchestra’s eyes, in the pit – but instead he punished her much more simply. Cutting all of the final business entirely, he let her struggle to keep her stained dress up over her breasts for a full sixteen bars of music; only then did he deign to give the cue to the flyman to bring in the tabs. Adding injury to insult, he deliberately left it to the very last minute to grab her by the wrist and tug her upstage of the descending wall of fabric. She staggered, tripped and almost fell again, and the laughter of the audience grew into ragged, jeering applause.
Reggie knew that something had gone badly wrong as soon as he crawled out. The band was still blaring out the music for the call on the other side of the curtain, but Mr Brookes was standing stock-still and with his face in shadow, his back pointedly turned. One hand was dangling the empty champagne glass, and the other was clenching and unclenching itself. Sandra, ten feet away, was shifting anxiously from foot to foot, one hand straying up to her wig, her shoulders and the tops of her breasts eerily white in the between-the-acts twilight. Mr Brookes turned.
‘D’you know what you are, Sandra?’
The words slit through the music on the other side of the tabs like a razor. She bit her damaged lip, and stuck her chin up bravely as he moved towards her.
‘No, Mr Brookes,’ she replied. ‘At this particular moment, I have no flippin’ idea who I am at all.’
‘Well, then, I’ll tell you,’ he said, gouging his words into the remaining space between their faces exactly, and ignoring the half-lit chaos around them.
‘You’re a girl in a million, you are. The one fucking girl in a million who can’t walk straight even before I’ve fucked her. So why don’t you sod off back to whichever agency it was I got you from and take your wan little tits with you? Your money’s at the stage door.’
Reg could see that she would have liked nothing better than to have signed off by raking her nails across his face, but she hesitated – and at that exact point, after a hurried bar’s rest, the band on the other side of the curtain launched into ‘The Sun in Old Toledo’, and the next act’s lighting blazed on up in the flies. The sudden overhead wash of pink and blue put the blood back into Sandra’s cheeks, and she almost managed a smile.
‘Well,’ she pronounced, tugging her fur up and dodging the stagehands who were coming on to clear the cabinet, ‘it’s been lovely working with you, and I do hope something comes along for you very soon, Mr Brookes.’
She kicked the satin of her falling ball gown out of the way, turned, took three strides, and then turned again at the wing, delivering her exit line over one still-bare shoulder like a real pro.
‘Like a lorry doing sixty miles an hour through a red light, for instance.’
A stagehand guffawed. Reggie wouldn’t have put it past Mr Brookes to lose it at that point – especially when the stage manager started hissing Places please, everybody , and tapping his clipboard at them – but all he did was stand there, still clutching that ridiculously empty glass, and watching Sandra stalk away. The stagehands set to work with a vengeance to get the cabinet offstage in time, and the two dancers of the Spanish speciality act dodged them in a swirl of ruffles and took up their places. The stage manager hissed again, and to Reggie’s astonishment Mr Brookes, still standing there, took the time to let his face melt into a wide, handsome and white-toothed smile – a real one. In desperation, the stage manager shouted into the flies, and
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