you’d never heard of—were getting the scripts, the parts and the deals that would once have dropped into your lap as a matter of course? There was no pain as sharp or as deep as the news of somebody else’s success. If it was an actor older than himself that was bad enough. But if it was a contemporary—or worse, somebody younger , somebody prettier— it made him so crazy he’d have to go pop a tranquilizer or three to stop himself getting morose and foul-tempered. And even the happy pills didn’t work the way they had in the old days. He’d taken too many; his body was too used to them.
So: what to do, what to do?
Should he sit on his slowly-expanding ass and start to avoid the mirror, or take the bull by the horns and get an appointment with Doctor Burrows?
He remained undecided for about a week. And then one evening, sitting at home alone nursing a drink and flipping the channels of his sixty-inch TV, he came upon a segment from the telecast of last year’s Oscar ceremony. A young actor, whom he knew for a fact was not one of the smartest bunnies in town, was receiving his third Oscar of the night, for a picture he had—at least according to the credits—written, directed and starred in. The latter? Well there was no disputing that. He was in every other frame of the damn picture, back-lit and golden. He was playing a stuttering, mentally unstable poor boy from the Deep South, a role which he claimed he had based on the life of his father’s brother, who had died tragically at the hands of a lynch mob that had mistaken him for a rapist.
It was all perfect Oscar-fodder: the ambitious young artist bucking the star system to tell a tale of the human spirit, rooted in his own family history.
Except that the truth was neither so moving nor so magical. Far from having been lynched, the “dead” uncle was still very much alive (or so gossip around town went), having spent twenty-two years in jail for a rape that he did not to this day contest. He had received a healthy pay-back from the studio that released the picture to stay conveniently quiet, so that his story could be told the Hollywood way, leaving the Golden Boy with his ten-thousand-watt smile to walk off with three Oscars for his CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 76
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mantelpiece. Todd had it on good authority that his directorial skills extended no further than knowing where his Winnebago was parked.
He wasn’t the only one aspiring to snatch Todd’s throne. There were plenty of others, chirpy little cock-suckers swarming out of the wood-work to play the King of Hollywood, when Todd had yet to vacate the role.
Well fuck ’em. He’d knock them off their stolen pedestals, the sonsofbitches. He’d have the limelight back in a heartbeat—all that glory, all that love—and they’d be back on the casting couch in a week with their fannies in the air.
So what if it cost him a few weeks of discomfort? It would be worth it just to see the expressions on their pretty little faces when they realized they’d got greedy a decade too early.
Contrary to recent opinions, the King of the Heart-throbs was not dead.
He was coming home, and he was going to look like a million dollars.
CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 77
F O U R
On the day Todd had booked to see Burrows for a first consultation, he had to cancel at the last minute.
“You’re not going to believe my excuse,” he told the receptionist, “but I swear it’s the truth.”
“Go on.”
“My dog’s sick.”
“Well that’s not one we hear very often. So, gold star for originality.”
The fact was that Dempsey, his mutt, was not looking too good that morning; he’d got up to go out into the backyard for his morning piss and he’d stumbled, as though one of his legs were numb. Todd went down to see if he was okay. He wasn’t. Though he still put on a happy face for his boss, his expression looked strangely dislocated, as though he were having difficulty focusing
So: what to do, what to do?
Should he sit on his slowly-expanding ass and start to avoid the mirror, or take the bull by the horns and get an appointment with Doctor Burrows?
He remained undecided for about a week. And then one evening, sitting at home alone nursing a drink and flipping the channels of his sixty-inch TV, he came upon a segment from the telecast of last year’s Oscar ceremony. A young actor, whom he knew for a fact was not one of the smartest bunnies in town, was receiving his third Oscar of the night, for a picture he had—at least according to the credits—written, directed and starred in. The latter? Well there was no disputing that. He was in every other frame of the damn picture, back-lit and golden. He was playing a stuttering, mentally unstable poor boy from the Deep South, a role which he claimed he had based on the life of his father’s brother, who had died tragically at the hands of a lynch mob that had mistaken him for a rapist.
It was all perfect Oscar-fodder: the ambitious young artist bucking the star system to tell a tale of the human spirit, rooted in his own family history.
Except that the truth was neither so moving nor so magical. Far from having been lynched, the “dead” uncle was still very much alive (or so gossip around town went), having spent twenty-two years in jail for a rape that he did not to this day contest. He had received a healthy pay-back from the studio that released the picture to stay conveniently quiet, so that his story could be told the Hollywood way, leaving the Golden Boy with his ten-thousand-watt smile to walk off with three Oscars for his CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 76
76
CLIVE BARKER
mantelpiece. Todd had it on good authority that his directorial skills extended no further than knowing where his Winnebago was parked.
He wasn’t the only one aspiring to snatch Todd’s throne. There were plenty of others, chirpy little cock-suckers swarming out of the wood-work to play the King of Hollywood, when Todd had yet to vacate the role.
Well fuck ’em. He’d knock them off their stolen pedestals, the sonsofbitches. He’d have the limelight back in a heartbeat—all that glory, all that love—and they’d be back on the casting couch in a week with their fannies in the air.
So what if it cost him a few weeks of discomfort? It would be worth it just to see the expressions on their pretty little faces when they realized they’d got greedy a decade too early.
Contrary to recent opinions, the King of the Heart-throbs was not dead.
He was coming home, and he was going to look like a million dollars.
CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 77
F O U R
On the day Todd had booked to see Burrows for a first consultation, he had to cancel at the last minute.
“You’re not going to believe my excuse,” he told the receptionist, “but I swear it’s the truth.”
“Go on.”
“My dog’s sick.”
“Well that’s not one we hear very often. So, gold star for originality.”
The fact was that Dempsey, his mutt, was not looking too good that morning; he’d got up to go out into the backyard for his morning piss and he’d stumbled, as though one of his legs were numb. Todd went down to see if he was okay. He wasn’t. Though he still put on a happy face for his boss, his expression looked strangely dislocated, as though he were having difficulty focusing
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