Red Rum

‘Cut!’ Leonard shouted, snapping the movie slate shut, dizzy with the relief that comes after the end of a shoot. ‘Thanks so much, Francis, you’re good to go.’ 

‘No, thank you, Lenny,’ Francis Keaton replied, shaking Leonard’s hand. ‘I hope we meet again.’ 

‘Me too. Good luck with your Nespresso adverts. Where’s Liliana?’ Leonard called out to Travis, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Travis, you reek of whiskey.’ 

‘It’s called method acting. I had to do it all the time for Streetcar.’ 

‘Ah! There you are!’ 

Liliana Hoyt, who seemed to be winning every acting award going, was grabbed by Leonard and manhandled by two of the producers onto the set. 

‘Hey!’ she screamed. ‘Get off me!’ 

‘You could have dressed up,’ Leonard said as Liliana got thrown onto the bed. ‘Actually it’s fine. Just pull the comforter over her.’ 

One of the producers threw some rope around her hands, before tying them to the headboard. 

‘Leonard, what the fuck is going on? Where’s Margo?’ 

‘What about her?’ 

The same producer silenced Liliana, her face blueing in mute appeal, with a strip of duct tape. Suddenly her legs were flailing, writhing, kicking; helpless in the face of the director’s conspiratorial will. 

‘And... action!’ 

An unsteady Travis walked onto set, holding a chainsaw, its roar drowning out Liliana’s muffled howls. Where its teeth kissed her leg, blood, first a trickle, and then a surge, began to mist the whole set. 

‘Travis, stop!’ 

Margo Devine, the actress who had claimed the starring role, walked in at that very moment. 

‘Is everything okay? Liliana called me about an extra scene?’ 

She clapped her hands to her face in horror once she saw Liliana’s dismembered limbs. 

‘Oh my God!’ 

‘Please, Detective, I don’t want to watch it anymore,’ pleaded Leonard, turning his head away from the footage. 

Detective Montrose switched the computer off, before turning his attention back to Leonard, whose face was still blank with anxiety.

‘You do know how this looks, don’t you, Mr. Leery?’ Montrose said. 

‘Yes. Of course I do.’ 

‘I mean, it’s there, on screen, for all to see. You directing Mr. Waterman to saw Ms. Hoyt in half.’ 

‘It was a prop!’ 

‘Okay.’ Montrose wrote this down. ‘And this was for your movie, was it?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘A Prison Without Walls?’ 

‘Yes,’ Leonard replied begrudgingly. ‘You know, it took two weeks at a writing camp in Prague to come up with that.’ 

For a moment Leonard felt it was just him and the detective, at the centre of the universe, the tape recorder and folders props, and the light bulb, swinging pendulum-like above, illuminating the room with an unwelcome light, only there for an added theatrical frisson.

‘Mr. Leery, I’m confused, to say the least,’ Montrose said. ‘Not one of you has a motive against Ms. Hoyt. Can we please just rewind? Going back from Ms. Hoyt’s death to the day you started.’ 

‘What, again?’ 

‘Please. If you wouldn’t mind...’ 

24th October

Three weeks into filming

After ten seconds of looking furiously for Travis, I found him perched on the banquet in the corner, his arms and legs splayed across the leather. It reminded of that scene in Pulp Fiction, when Pumpkin and Honey Bunny ransack the diner. Travis fit the aesthetic perfectly: even though he was a star of the stage, he could well have been a vagrant. 

  ‘Sorry, I was hungry,’ he said like a naughty kid, with a chocolate moustache and a half-eaten banana split in front of him. ‘Would you like anything?’ 

‘No, I’m fine. I can’t stay long.’ 

Travis’ hair was incredibly greasy, striking that unfortunate balance between being neither curly nor straight. 

‘Jesus, your breath reeks, Travis.’ 

The scent was a mix of red wine, cheroots and patchouli all rolled into one. 

‘Anyway, I think you know why I’m here.’ 

‘Do I?’ 

‘Yes, Travis, you do. It’s about your wife, Margot.’ 

‘I don’t have a wife.’ 

‘Oh my God, in the movie, Travis.’ 

‘Oh yeah. Sorry.’ 

Margot and James McClaine, played by Liliana and Travis, began life as a vision of cold, jodhpur-wearing elitism, but when they went bankrupt, were forced to downsize and move across from the Feldmans; whose marriage they ended up shattering. 

‘Liliana dropped quite the bomb the other day,’ I continued.

Travis furrowed his eyebrows. ‘Sorry, who?’ 

‘Liliana. She plays your wife, Travis, Jesus Christ.’ 

‘Oh okay. Sorry. I don’t get involved with the other actors.’ 

Holding my nose, so as not to inhale any more alcohol breath, I tried one more time to get through to him. 

‘Liliana wondered if you, as her husband, would kill her in the script. You’re the cuckolded alcoholic in the marriage so it’s completely plausible.’ 

‘Oh. That’s fine,’ Travis said, the red wine talking. 

‘Really? It would require you to film some extra scenes. Are you available next week?’ 

‘Yes.

‘Great. Thanks.’ I gave him a slap on the shoulder. ‘She says it’s because she doesn’t want any trouble, but she wants to be a main character. Audiences love murder. I think that’s the problem with movies these days.’ 

‘You don’t have to explain yourself,’ Travis reassured me. ‘Let’s kill this bitch.’ 

22nd October

My muscles coiled as soon as I caught sight of her. Liliana, who I am pretty sure was my least favourite (which was no mean feat), had called me unexpectedly to run through some things. And I got the feeling it wasn’t to discuss the movie; it never is. 

  The restaurant we had agreed to meet in was an upscale eatery on the fringes of the town centre; the sort of place reserved for illicit liaisons and big ultimatums. I knew Liliana spent all her time as an actress, if she wasn’t wielding an axe on the silver screen, in places like these, possessing the sought-after elixir that wangles fourteen-course taster meals and corners tuxedoes businessmen into the nooks of dingy bars. 

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to this, Leonard,’ she said in her native southern twang, her brazen authenticity chording a jarring note against the coy contentment of the restaurant. Liliana was rakish and spidery, her face so pale as though made of reconstituted porcelain, the cruel origami of her arms stretched to hug me. 

‘No. Really. Thank you. Have you ordered?’ 

‘I haven’t.’ 

‘Great,’ she said, perusing the menu. 

‘You know, I haven’t got long, Liliana, I have to dash—’

‘It’s Lili. And what do you mean, you have to dash? You’re such a bad liar.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Let’s see how convincingly you can lie about where you were last week. When you saw me and Margo having a go at each other.’ 

She picked up the knife, as though she was poised to dissect me. 

‘Why are you looking so worried?’ 

The waiter arrived, absolving me of this question. He took our orders, looking askance at Liliana as he did so, probably surprised at how underdressed she was. He would be right: it was clear Liliana didn’t fit in here. It came to herald a changing of the guard. No longer were places like these populated by the jewel-draped dames, who held an ice-bedded coupe in one palm of their hand and the piqued interest of their stupid director in the other; but now overhauled by a new generation: one of them being Liliana, a raven-haired, new-age Janet Leigh. 

‘I’ll try and be quick,’ she said, sipping her wine, ‘but Margo Devine, fucking Margo Devine, is not a subject I can discuss without completely going batshit crazy. I hope you understand.’ 

‘I don’t know what you mean, Liliana.’ 

‘Oh drop the act, Leonard, you know exactly what I mean.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You saw us! I saw you saw us.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Oh my God, don’t even try to— When we stopped filming, me and Margo went to... And you...’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re—’

‘Look, I don’t care, I know you’re lying. All I wanted to tell you is that I know you. I’ve met directors like you before. A zillion of them.’ 

This was a lie: Liliana’s showreel was suspiciously short. 

‘And I know what gets people like you going,’ she continued. 

I stared at her with my eyes wide open, loudly glugging my wine so the silence she left was even more pronounced.

‘Money,’ she explained, as though this wasn’t obvious. ‘Of course it’s money.’ 

‘Right. And what’s that gotta do with Margo?’ 

‘Haha. It has everything to do with Margo.’ 

Liliana leaned in, her breath hot on my cheek. 

‘I didn’t wanna have to tell you this, obviously I didn’t, not even my mom knows. But Margo and I... We had a thing some years ago.’ 

Liliana bit her lip defiantly, numb with inexpressible loathing. 

‘I don’t think you can call it a thing to be honest, but Twitter will have different ideas. It didn’t even last a year.’ 

‘I have to say I’m surprised,’ I improvised, hiding my face with my glass. ‘Margo’s a big star.’ 

‘Exactly! Margo Devine, darling of the acting world, splashed all over the front pages because she’s been having an affair with another woman. And not just any woman. The next Neve Campbell of course.’ 

‘Liliana, I don’t—’

‘You know who’ll come out of this the worst, Leonard. Not me, no. Not even Margo. But you. No-one will watch your movie, no-one will care. No-one will ever wanna hire you again.’ 

The prospect, although shocking, yet entirely plausible, was a terrifying one.

‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked. 

‘Look, I know this is gonna sound mad because I know we’re so late into the shoot and I know how hard you’ve worked on the script but... How about we kill Margo’s character off? I just think this is what the script needs.’ 

‘So you want to kill Margot off?’ 

‘Yes. You can give her a big send-off if you like, but I just don’t think Margo belongs in this movie.’ 

‘Okay,’ I said, summoning the waiter for more wine. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ 

14th October 

Two weeks into filming 

I had known these people for just over a month and I already knew that they were the worst people I had ever met. Margo was a man-hating sociopath, Liliana was a man-eating snake, Travis was a narcissistic man-child, and Francis was simply a very annoying man. 

  ‘Lenny, you with us?’ Francis called out. ‘I’ve gotta go in twenty minutes, can we wrap this up please?’ 

‘Sure.’ 

I made my way back to the studio. The custom-made house for the movie, inhabited by Grace and Roger Feldman, played by Margo Devine and Francis Keaton respectively, was gorgeously uniform and pastel; something even Martha Stewart would be proud of. Their marriage was literally like something from a TV commercial; something rehearsed, shot and then left in a studio; something always destined for the snap of a director’s slate. It was so hollow, so unreal, that someone could scrawl over it with a black marker pen and no-one would notice. The Feldmans lived in a world full of Minnie and Roman Castevets; where everything was dystopian and rabid-bunny happy; where apples seemed to pick themselves, where lawnmowers began without prompt, and where babies slept without protest. 

  ‘And that’s a wrap!’ I announce, weak with relief. ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?’ 

  In what was my only break of the day, I go for a cigarette and watch the world go by. The town, a mass of either failing or fledgling shops, of laundromats and fried chicken, was a buckle in the belt of dusty, apple-knocking America: a montage of sandy browns and russet reds that quite happily elided into one long sepia smudge. And then a shout—a scream. Something that threatened to disrupt the even tenor of my walk. 

‘Just leave - me - alone!’ they spat, the voice emanating from a woman’s head in the distance. 

‘What do you expect me to do?’ the blonde girl replied. 

I inched forward, before doubling back when I realised who they were: Margo and Liliana. 

‘Look, I know neither of us could have foreseen this,’ Liliana said, ‘but I don’t want you trying to talk to me in front of everyone, okay?’ 

‘I think it’s fine, Lili.’ 

Getting the feeling this conversation wasn’t something I should be hearing, I backed up against the wall and bowed my head. Everything had seemed so civil on set up until now. Then again, it was to be expected. Actors could behave like little children. 

‘No, it’s not fine, Margo,’ continued Liliana, spitting fury. ‘And to make matters worse they’ve given me the same fucking name as you. That’ll be all over TMZ when they find out about us.’ 

‘Lili, please...’ 

‘Do not touch me. Honestly, I swear to God... After we do this, if you come near me again, then I will call the police. Leave - me - alone!’ 

9th September

The Table Read

I hated an ensemble cast. This time, luckily, I only had to contend with four different personalities, but it was the personalities that was the difficult bit. The four elected professionals - the starlet, the treader of boards, the scream queen and the smarmy one you see on Nespresso adverts - were due at lunchtime: a pretext to pick at finger food and bitch about the agent they all once had in common.

  It was when I finished putting the food and drinks together that Margo Devine, the first to try my smorgasbord of bread rolls and oil dips, decided to arrive. With her eyes in some sort of half-squint, forever suspicious of any gathering of men, or any errant camera, Margo had her hair scraped back into a lick of blonde and was wearing an outsize puffer jacket. I pictured her getting bundled into a Land Rover by her press agent, the jacket pulled over her shoulder blades with perma-pincered fingers, moving as fast as her praying mantis legs would permit; like a Weinstein protégée, whose daily intake amounted to nothing more than an iceberg lettuce leaf and a cube of blue cheese.

‘Margo! Hi!’ I greeted her awkwardly, kissing her on both cheeks, feeling the shocking realness of her bones. 

‘There’s someone in the elevator coming up,’ she said, upturning her nose. ‘I’m not sure he’s a part of this. I think he’s the one who does the Nespresso adverts.’ 

‘Francis Keaton?’ 

‘Oh yes. That’s the one.’ 

‘Ah,’ I said, spying Francis at the door. ‘Speak of the devil.’ 

First shooting to international fame in his early twenties, much in the same mould as Leonardo DiCaprio, Francis Keaton was the nation’s sweetheart. With orange skin and one remaining tuft of hair, he was clearly still clinging onto the vestiges of youth, but as he was Francis Delano Keaton, the perfect riposte to any insult, he was most definitely forgiven; one dimply smile from his much-pinched cheek and you would just swoon. 

‘So, who else we waiting for then?’ he asked, in his frothy drawl. 

‘Just two more.’ 

‘Who are they? It’s not Meryl Streep, is it?’

‘No no, not Meryl unfortunately. It’s Travis Waterman and Liliana Hoyt.’ 

‘Ah. Liliana. The woman of the moment.’ 

‘Liliana’s coming?’ Margo asked, tweaking her sleeve. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘Is there a problem?’ 

‘Oh no. We just haven’t seen each other since the whole Cabin in the Woods debacle.’ 

‘Oh yes,’ Francis laughed. ‘Right bloodbath, wasn’t it?’ 

‘Ah!’ I beamed, breaking the awkward silence that came thereafter. ‘I think that’s them now.’ 

With an A-list swagger she could only mimic, Liliana Hoyt entered at that exact moment beside Travis Waterman. Liliana, making her name through low-budget arthouse movies, could not be more different from Travis, who was securely established as the doyen of theatre, earning his first Tony nomination for his performance in Othello. I wondered how they would react when they would learn that they were going to be playing a married couple. 

  Which reminded me: The script I would have them read, written by myself of course, was tentatively titled A Prison Without Walls. It was about a married couple in the 1950s, the sort to hold Tupperware parties and send their children to elocution lessons, who find themselves re-evaluating their priorities when a new couple moves in across the road. 

  ‘Hello, Leonard. Good to see you again.’ (We had never met before.) 

‘Good evening, Travis,’ I said, showing them to their seats. 

The five of us arranged ourselves in the most curious of configurations, with Margo and Travis at one end, and Francis and Liliana at the other. 

‘So, I hope everyone’s got the right script,’ I said, taking charge.

‘Yes,’ Travis responded, remarkably quick for someone who had all the zeal of a narcoleptic. ‘But it says here my character’s an alcoholic, is that—?’ 

‘No no, James falls off a wagon when he learns his wife, played by Liliana, is cheating on him. Is that...?’ 

‘Yep.’ 

It was an awkward subject; everyone knew Travis was an alcoholic ever since his stint in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. 

‘At least it’s not me doing the cheating!’ Francis quipped. 

‘Actually you are,’ I corrected. ‘Roger cheats on his wife with Liliana’s character.’ 

No-one thought it appropriate to respond: TMZ had a helicopter above Keaton’s mansion for months after he ordered a prostitute to his home while his wife was on vacation. 

Liliana craned forward, opening her mouth to speak. ‘Leonard, it says here my character’s called Margot. I—’

‘Margot. Yes. It’s spelled differently.’ 

‘Well, I hope you don’t confuse us,’ Margo interjected. 

Everyone shot a sideways glance at Margo sulking in the corner. 

‘So,’ I said, slapping my knees. ‘Shall we begin?’ 

It was finally time. We all took a sharp intake of breath, before turning the first page. Francis was still smiling, Liliana was still staring at me, Travis was still dwelling on his character arc, and Margo was left to quietly fume about the fact that her namesake was played by her archenemy. 

Police interview with Leonard Leery terminated at 16:04