Blood Brother

The ugly red scar stretched from just below his left eye to the corner of his lips. It divided his  face in half. Archie had to admit that it was almost a passport, a symbol of identity. There  were certainly two sides to Archie Edgar Duncan, but you shouldn’t stop there. He sat in his  dressing gown in front of a large Victorian mirror and an assortment of makeup. Bottles,  tubes, powder compacts, brushes, eye liners, patches and potions lay tumbled together. But  a quick look at the skilful hands, the delicate movements, the handling of the apparently  haphazard pile of equipment before him on the dressing table, would have convinced even  the most sceptical observers that they were in the presence of an artist. 

In minutes the face that looked back at him from the mirror was that of a stranger. A man in  his forties, his dark hair combed forward into a fringe, his complexion sallow, his beard  elegantly trimmed, stared approvingly with dark brown eyes at his creator. Thin lips twisted  into a cynical smile.  

Opening a large wardrobe, he surveyed shirts, jackets, suits, trousers, all arranged neatly,  with a label attached to each hanger. He chose a rather baggy suit with large brown checks  on a mustard-coloured background. Expertly Archie fixed a natty, yellow bow tie and folded  a silk handkerchief into his top pocket. 

‘All ready, Vinny? Make sure you’re paying attention this morning, wooden head.’ 

A dummy lying flat and limp across the back of a chair did not move. Yet a high-pitched boy’s  voice answered, ‘I always say what you say.’ 

Archie packed the doll and a few props into a large, black bag from which a muffled voice  protested, ‘Damn it! Can’t see a fucking thing.’ 

After he had locked the door, Archie walked towards Piccadilly tube station.  ° ° ° 

The Grand was a theatre which had seen better days, the end of the old Music Halls, then  the heyday of Repertory companies. Now it was popular gigs, local opera societies, school  choirs and the traditional Christmas Pantomime. In fact, it was the Christmas show which  kept the theatre going. As Archie walked past the front of the Grand, he saw the brightly  

coloured posters already advertising that year’s panto – ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. A huge,  green, cardboard beanstalk hung suspended from the roof with the cutout figure of Jack  halfway up and the hideous Giant waiting at the top! 

Archie had played at the Grand in past Christmas shows. He made his way to the familiar  stage door. Inside was chaos. Queues of nervous, excited kids, with even more anxious 

mothers, were waiting to be auditioned. Dancers in rehearsal costume, flitted across the  stage. Backstage staff carried boxes of ‘gold’ goblets, chests of cardboard treasure, wigs,  false beards and mysterious bottles of bright green, magical potions to storage rooms behind  the back curtain. 

Archie barely noticed the uproar. Hanging on tightly to Vinny, still incarcerated in the dark  bag, Archie made his way to the small studio where auditions for the main roles were usually  held.  

The passageway was empty though he could still hear the shouts and excited chatter of the  children. He had hardly knocked on the studio door before a woman’s voice invited him,  somewhat brusquely, to ‘Come in.’ 

Immediately facing him sat Clarissa Page, busily re-arranging her papers and jotting down  notes in a small red diary. Archie recognised her at once, dyed blonde hair, expensively  styled, blood red nails, doll-like makeup, designer suit. You haven’t changed much. Perhaps  deeper shadows under your eyes and that doll look needs updating. Archie ran an expert eye  over the unsuspecting Clarissa.  

‘Good morning, Mr Duncan.’ She quickly glanced down a list of names. ‘This is Ferdie Grant.  Mr Grant will be directing the show this year.’ 

For the first time Archie noticed a thin, scruffy young man with a shock of red hair which  constantly fell across his face and which he constantly pushed back. He nodded vaguely in  Archie’s direction. 

‘Obviously, we are looking for a giant which the audience love to hate. You look to be over  six foot already and Wardrobe can add a few centimetres. I’m going to be honest with you  Mr Duncan. One or two people have let us down this year. At the moment we are really  relying on you. I’ve looked at your CV and I know you are very experienced in these roles.  The perfect Panto Villain we might say.’ Clarissa allowed herself the suggestion of a smile. 

‘Thanks for the compliments, Mrs Page. I hope I can live up to your expectations. Would you  like to see a short extract from the panto? I think I can remember the lines; I’ve performed  the role several times.’ 

Clarissa glanced at Ferdie who shook his mop of hair unenthusiastically. So far, he’d said  nothing. It was obvious who controlled the purse strings  

Archie opened the black bag. Vinny emerged dishevelled, muttering, ‘How much an hour do  you get for this?’ 

Archie’s expression changed dramatically as he rested the dummy on his knee. ‘That fool of a boy is climbing up my beanstalk. Who do you think am I?’ Archie demanded with chilling menace and cold contempt.

Clarissa and Ferdie stared in disbelief at this stranger across the table.  ‘You’re the giant,’ Clarissa spoke with just the hint of a catch in her voice. 

‘I smell blood. I grind up bones to make my bread.’ At this point Archie had stood up and  lurched nearer to the startled Clarissa. He brought his fist down on the table with a  tremendous bang. 

‘Oh, you’ll have all the children terrified, Mr Duncan,’ her attempted laugh sounding more  like a strangled cry. 

‘Steady on mate. We don’t want kids pissing themselves.’ Ferdie’s hair looked even wilder. Archie sat down again. The giant had vanished as quickly as he had appeared. He bundled  Vinny back in the bag and looked questioningly at Clarissa.  

‘Well, I think you’ve convinced us, Mr Duncan. Rehearsals begin next Tuesday at nine o’clock  prompt. The contract will be in the post.’ 

Archie gathered proceedings were over for the morning. Clarissa held out her hand.  As he shook it, he felt a sudden fury, like a surge of heat about to burst into flames. ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before Mr Duncan. Somehow you seem familiar.’ ‘No, madam. I’ve never had the pleasure.’ 

 ° ° ° 

It was the Christmas Eve performance. There was a full house of excited children and rather  less excited parents. 

‘At least it keeps them entertained for the evening or they’d be driving us mad,’ Michael  Russell called over his shoulder as he bought a second round of ice cream for his three kids  plus the two from next door. 

‘Oh, come on Mike you know you’ll enjoy it. I haven’t seen ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ for  donkey’s years. It must have been when…’ his wife’s voice was lost in the excitement of  finding their seats. 

Backstage in his dressing room, Archie looked long and hard into his mirror. It was not the  star dressing room by any stretch of the imagination. The mirror was streaked with water  marks and an old neon light hung at an angle from a rusty chain. He stared at the face being  born in front of him. In a matter of minutes, Archie had aged twenty years. His hair was 

almost white, just streaked with flecks of dark grey. The scar stood out, the damaged skin  pink and puckered, liked a raw ham chop, laid on a dirty white table cloth. The eyes which  stared back, empty and unfocused, had a greenish tinge, fading into watery, bloodshot rims.  This was a face for Halloween, not Christmas Eve. The perfect pantomime villain, the words  echoed and re-echoed in the dark corners of the shabby room. As Archie began pulling on  the giant’s huge red smock and boat-like boots, he heard a knock on his door as the call boy  announced ‘Five minutes before curtain up Mr Duncan. Remember, Mrs Page will be here for  the first half, Sir.’ 

Archie stood in the wings, watching the knock-about comedy of the opening scene. Jack’s  mother, the traditional pantomime dame, a middle-aged man padded out in drag, Jack, the  principal ‘boy’, a tall, leggy blonde whose dark roots needed a re-touch, Archie noted. He  could see the children in the audience, open-eyed, leaning forward, their faces reflected in  rainbow colours as the stage lights changed. The next scene would be the Giant’s first  entrance. Vinny lay lifeless across Archie’s arm waiting to be given a voice. The Giant’s first  entrance always received a noisy, belligerent re-action from the audience.  

The mask was grotesque, the sneer on the lips menacing, the eyes glaring at the volatile  crowd.  

‘You don’t scare us ’ ‘We know you’re killed in the end!’ ‘There’s no real giants!’. In all the  excitement nobody noticed the giant’s eyes were particularly green and bloodshot that  night. Archie threw everything into the role. He stood at the front, almost reaching into the  staring faces in the front stalls. His ‘I smell blood’ was so convincing that it was met with a  stunned silence, even in the cheap seats in the Upper Circle. As Jack appeared at the top of  the beanstalk, Archie’s hands closed so tightly round the neck of the principal ‘boy’ that the  actress whispered hoarsely, ‘What the hell, Archie? I can’t fucking breathe!’  

His exit at the end of the scene was greeted with an explosion of boos and applause.  ° ° ° 

The front curtain came down. In the audience the scramble for interval drinks and ice cream  began. Backstage Archie was busy distributing sweets to the kids in the panto who crowded  round staring at his mask. 

‘Generous today, aren’t we? Won the lottery? The right numbers come up?’ queried the  principal ‘boy’, still resentfully rubbing her neck.  

Archie smiled as he walked casually back towards his dressing room. Once inside, he quickly  took off his costume and threw the mask aside as he pulled on a pair of fine kid gloves.  Vinny hung over the back of a chair, his face squashed into a grubby velvet cushion. A grey haired stranger, with an ugly pink scar and bloodshot green eyes locked the door, before  walking up the passage. He passed two backstage hands carrying a huge cardboard cooking  pot. In a deep voice with a suggestion of a Scottish accent, the elderly man asked, 

‘Can you direct me to Mrs Page’s office, please,’ 

‘Ok mate, walk to the end of this passage, turn right and you can’t miss it. ‘er name’s on the  door‘. 

Archie watched them disappear with the cooking pot brushing the low ceiling.    

 ° ° ° 

He was soon standing in front of the door, a door he was actually very familiar with. He  knocked firmly but politely. 

‘Come in.’ Clarissa’s voice sounded sightly impatient. 

Archie closed the door quietly, before turning to face her. She was rather more dressed up  than on the audition morning. The blonde hair had been touched up. The makeup more  carefully applied. A red Valentino dress, perfectly fitted, flattered her aging figure. She  glanced up quickly from a pile of pay sheets, the top one held between newly painted,  scarlet nails. Then a moment later, as if she had suddenly remembered some long- forgotten  face, Clarissa stared into the bloodshot eyes. ‘I know you.’ She paused a moment.’ It was  Bournemouth Repertory Theatre. Let me think, it must have been over thirty years ago. Yes,  it was ‘Hamlet’ and I was co-producer.’ 

‘Perhaps you also remember a rather pretty young girl played Ophelia?’ Archie had  abandoned his assumed Scottish accent. For once in his life, he was not acting. 

Under the makeup, a look of panic flashed across Clarissa’s elegant features. ‘Yes, I remember, Maisie Douglas, stage name of course, pretty face but you need more than  that in the theatre.’ 

‘Especially if the leading man fancies you!’ 

Clarissa began to stand up. As she pushed her chair back, Archie grabbed her wrist, pulling  her back into her seat. Leaning across the table, he clamped his other hand over her mouth.  ‘It’s even more difficult if the producer fancies the leading man too!’ A pale, child-like face is  looking helplessly at Archie. A tear runs down one cheek. 

‘It was a long while ago. You can’t turn back the years. Now if there’s anything I can help you  with, a small apartment, a modest annuity, anything that you. . .’ Her voice faded away while  Archie stood over her. The blood red nails flashed as she reached for the phone on the desk.  

Archie was quicker! A leather clad hand seized the cordless phone, hurling into a shadowy  corner. With the other hand he pulled Clarissa’s handbag across the desk, dumping it on the  floor beside him. Casually, he took a small kitchen knife from his pocket, laying it in front of  him. The blade shimmered wickedly in the harsh neon light.

‘It’s a long way up this passage and the theatre’s very noisy. Kids, Christmas Eve and a long  interval, you know what it’s like. 

‘Did you know Maisie Douglas back then?’ 

Archie finds himself in a shabby kitchen opposite a white faced seven- year- old girl. His hand  clutches hers across the bare table. Screams echo from behind a closed door. The two  children sit silent, waiting. Finally, the door is flung open. A heavily built man, his face  flushed, drags a half-dressed woman into the room. He throws her like a rag doll against the  table. As the little girl screams, Archie runs at his father, butting him hard in the stomach. A  

look of astonishment on the brutal face is quickly replaced by one of fury. Taking a kitchen  knife from the sink, he slashes the boy across the face. Blood drips over the table onto the  filthy floor.  

‘Yes, I knew Maisie back then.’ 

‘What happened to her, after. . . Clarissa’s voice hesitated, then dried up.’ 

‘Let me jog your memory, after you sacked her when the production moved to London’s  West End? That’s what you wanted to say, wasn’t it Mrs Page? 

Clarissa nodded dumbly, staring at the pay slips, as if for inspiration. 

The tide is coming in fast. Archie stares at a girl’s body laid out on the sand. She looks  peacefully asleep, just waiting for the tide to turn. If only she’d talked to him. There would  have been other chances. As he looks out to sea, two gulls fly low over the waves. He  watches them perch on a sheer cliff side. 

He felt suddenly very cold and somehow far away. Detached from everything, floating like  the gulls in space. His shirt was damp. He felt dreamily under his jacket. Archie’s hand was  red with blood as he looked across at Clarissa with the kitchen knife still in her hand.