Oliver
The blonde in the short skirt screamed for the last time as the horned monster emerged from the shadows.
‘Bravo, Adam, bravo. It was absolutely hideous.’
Moresby’s leathery hand squeezed Adam’s knee as the screen faded to black. Adam tensed at the touch. He hated letting the old queen paw him, but he needed what the older man could offer.
‘How did you do it? Effects like that with no real budget?’
‘Friends helped out.’
‘There for you in your hour of need.’
Another squeeze. Adam slid out of the chair to remove the DVD from the player. He felt Moresby’s eyes on him.
‘It really works you know. There are plenty of people out there who would back this.’
A smile touched Adam’s lips but he suppressed it before it stuck. He knew that he mustn’t show himself to be too eager. The older man kept a smile on his face as he took in the last of his whisky.
‘Get yourself one, my boy, you’ve earned it.’
Adam accepted and poured two fingers into a cut crystal Waterford tumbler.
‘I must say it’s a far cry from my day. The lighting and effects really make the whole thing seem so real. When the black girl’s head came off – wonderful! All we had were buckets of red paint and plastic fangs!’
‘But your films were great Jonathan, a real inspiration.’
‘Too kind, dear boy.’
‘Not at all. Without yours I might not be even trying to make films. I watched them all you know.’
‘You’ve said before. Watched them where? Where was that sink estate that you’re from?’
‘Bermondsey.’
‘Ah yes, that jungle south of the river. A far cry from Highgate.’
Adam sipped his drink as memories of grey tower blocks and Saturday night beatings played back in his mind.
‘But you’ll have to tell me where you got those actresses from. Wonderful. Drama students were they?’
‘Just from around, they’d never acted before.’
Moresby gave a knowing wink. ‘Pretty girls. Paying them in kind were you, eh? You must tell me who played the creature. He was only credited as Oliver but I see him as the equal of Englund or Hodder.’
‘He’s a friend, my best friend. We grew up watching your films together. He loved them as well.’
‘Another fan, the joy! When can I meet the wonderful boy?’
‘Maybe some other time. Top up?’
‘I never say no. Well he was a genius. I truly believed in him as he hunted those women and the make-up on him was astounding!’
‘Jonathan ...’ Adam stood closer, so close he could see the broken veins in Moresby’s nose and cheek, ‘Do you think you could speak to your friend?’
‘Geoffrey? Of course, dear boy. I had him in mind from the start.’
He brushed against Adam as he stood and the fumes on their breaths combined for a moment.
‘I’ll call him now before it gets too late. I see the rain hasn’t let up. Cabs can be rare out here, you may need to stay. Help yourself to another drink.’
Moresby moved out of the lounge and into his study, closing the door behind him. Adam sat back down and turned the disc over in his hands before replacing it in its case. His first full-length film and it was better than any of the shorts he had made – the shorts that had so impressed Jonathan Moresby. Adam hadn’t lied to the old queen. He and Oliver had watched all of his films religiously. The late night reruns of his stuff from the seventies and later his Italian films from the eighties. They watched them while Adam’s dad was either at the pub or unconscious in bed. Then they’d watched them quietly so he wouldn’t wake up and so that his belt would stay on his jeans. Adam remembered the lash of that belt. He had known Oliver for a year when the beatings stopped. Oliver made sure they had stopped.
The office door opened and Moresby stepped out of his study.
‘All settled. You’re to meet Geoffrey on Monday at one o'clock. At the French House.’
The older man smiled and Adam realised there was no way around it this time. Quid pro quo. The price of success. Adam necked the remainder of the whisky. Moresby’s smile stayed in place as he crossed the room. Then his smile dropped, he was looking past Adam.
‘Adam, is this some kind of joke?’
‘What is it?’
Adam turned and saw Oliver half-hidden behind the heavy drapes that covered the French windows. Rain spat in from behind him. Oliver looked sheepish, his curled ram-like horns pointed down. Adam had told him to stay at the flat but he had come anyway. He had wanted to know what the great Jonathan Moresby had thought of their masterpiece. He was around the same height as Adam but that was where the similarity ended. Oliver’s skin was a grey-black that was dotted with pits and ridges, his eyes were the wet black of tar and his fingers ended in three-inch talons that gleamed like razors.
‘Why is he here in that get-up?’
Adam poured whisky into two tumblers.
‘No, Oliver always looks like that. Always has, ever since I first met him. I found him when I was seven, a year before my father died.’
Oliver stepped in out of the rain wiping his feet as he came. Moresby struggled to catch his breath.
‘So, the film. It was …’
‘Real? Oh, yes. We had to tone down our excesses. I don’t think the BBFC would certificate it otherwise.’
Moresby clutched his left arm. He could see the rain running down Oliver’s body, it was all too real for him. Adam held out a glass and Oliver’s claws scratched the sides as he grasped it. Crystal clinked as they toasted each other and Moresby fell to his knees.
‘Adam … he … he’s a monster!’
‘Watch your fucking mouth, that’s my friend you’re talking about.’
The old man collapsed on to his side and pulled his knees up to his chest as the pain came again.
‘One o’clock Monday? I’ll see Geoffrey there.’
The two friends finished their drinks and left through the front door. It was a long walk back to south London, but thoughts of their success would keep them warm.
