Steven Bruce

Masquerade

In the hotel bar, he ordered another drink and noticed the woman staring at him.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’

His smile flashed. ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Ethan Latrine. But keep schtum. Don’t fancy getting mobbed tonight.’

‘I knew it.’ She slid her stool closer. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Shooting some scenes. Want a drink?’

‘Vodka tonic,’ she said.

He summoned the bartender. ‘Vodka tonic for the handsome lady. Put it on my tab.’

The bartender nodded. ‘Right away, Mister Latrine.’

‘So,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Some boring tech conference,’ she said.

The bartender served the drinks.

‘What’s Vivien Duvet like?’ She took a sip.

He scratched his cleft chin. ‘Total diva. Terrible kisser.’

‘And you’re an expert?’

‘These lips are legendary.’

‘Prove it,’ she said, sliding her foot up his leg.

He grinned. ‘Let’s finish these and go to my room.’

‘I shouldn’t. I’m—’

‘It’s fine.’ He stood to leave. ‘I understand.’

She grabbed his arm. ‘Wait.’ She paused for thought. ‘Okay.’

They drained their drinks and headed down a narrow corridor. At its end stood a dishevelled brown door without a number. He opened it. ‘Ladies first,’ he said.

The room was tiny, cramped with a single bed that sagged in the middle.

‘You’re staying here?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Method actor. My next role’s a hotel housekeeper.’

‘Interesting.’

He sat on the bed and placed his hands on her thighs.

She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the curves of her breasts, etched with purple stretch marks.

‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

‘Stunning.’

She lifted her skirt and climbed on top of him. Moments later, his cowboy boots kicked the air as he climaxed with a high-pitched groan.

He lit a cigarette as she perched on the edge of the bed and sobbed into her hands.

‘Was it that bad?’ He blew a smoke ring.

She looked at him. ‘No, it was amazing,’ she said. ‘It’s my life. I wish someone could take me away from it.’

He sat up and took her hand. ‘You’ve got to leave. I’m late for a meeting with Stephen Sodenberg. But give me your number, and I’ll call you.’

‘Promise?’

‘On my mother’s life.’

She kissed him, gave the number, and left.

He cleaned himself with hand sanitiser and returned to the bar.

‘Cerveza, por favor,’ he said, drumming with his fingers.

The bartender smirked. ‘That was quick.’

‘Not my finest hour.’

‘How was she?’

‘Let’s say she won’t be landing any modelling contracts.’

‘You’re a naughty man, Terrence,’ the bartender said. ‘I thought you never shit where you eat? She might stick around.’

‘Two weeks off starting tomorrow,’ Terrence said, raising his beer. ‘By the time I’m back, she’ll be long gone.’

Days later Terrence found himself at a run-down bar far from the city, his body aching from the previous night’s indulgence.

‘One moment,’ the bartender said and gave him a double glance. ‘My God, it’s you.’

His smile flashed. ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Ethan Latrine. But keep schtum. I don’t fancy getting mobbed tonight.’

‘Sign this for me?’ she said, sliding him a napkin.

He pulled out his pen. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Amber.’

‘To Amber, with pleasure. Ethan Latrine.’

She leaned in, her boozy breath mixing with her pungent perfume. ‘I loved you in that serial killer movie.’

‘A Sophisticated British Psycho,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I fantasise about you a lot.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ He pulled her close and lifted her shirt, revealing her tiny breasts and a Caesarean scar that curved across her toned stomach.

‘Is this a dream?’ she said, biting his neck.

He reached up her skirt and massaged her clitoris. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said.

She pulled away. ‘Let me freshen up.’

Terrence pressed his fingers to his nose. ‘Smells fresh to me.’

‘Ten minutes. Meet me outside by the bins,’ she said.

She locked the main door and headed out the back. He tucked his erection into his waistband and watched the clock.

Ten minutes later, he stepped into the alley.

Amber leaned over the bin. ‘Come and get me,’ she said.

Terrence felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face a human-sized magpie wearing a football shirt. ‘No autographs, friend.’

‘I’m not your friend, anus,’ the mascot said before punching him unconscious.

Terrence woke, tied to a chair in a room littered with garbage. The rancid smell of stale takeaway food mingled with the sweaty air.

‘He’s awake,’ Amber called.

The man in the mascot outfit rushed into the room. ‘About time. Listen up. We’re ransoming you. Play along, and it’ll go as smooth as butter. You namby-pamby actors have insurance coming out of your arse. It’s a victimless crime. And I owe a substantial debt to some dangerous people. Sub… stantial.’

‘You’ve made a big mistake,’ Terrence said.

In a frenzy, the man grabbed his throat. ‘Don’t threaten me, Latrine.’

‘I’m not Ethan Latrine.’

Amber held up a poster of A Sophisticated British Psycho beside his face. ‘Donald, what if he’s telling the truth?’

‘Never trust a damn actor, stupid. They lie for a living.’ Donald loosened his grip.

Terrence’s head sagged forward. ‘Imbeciles,’ he muttered.

‘No, we caught you,’ Amber said.

‘Caught me? Am I some great marlin to you? Speaking of fish, I bet you didn’t tell your boyfriend about our foreplay at the bar. Smell my fingers, Donald. Go on—’

‘I’m his sister, sicko,’ Amber said.

Donald paced the room. ‘Oh, you fingered my sister. I wanted to be professional, but you leave me no choice.’ A sick laugh escaped from his beak. ‘I know what to do with you.’

He left and returned holding bolt cutters. Without hesitation, he snipped off his thumb. Terrence’s delayed reaction erupted into a high-pitched wail.

‘Shut that slag up,’ Donald said.

Amber plucked a stale sock from the clutter and stuffed it into Terrence’s mouth.

‘I’ve got an errand to run,’ Donald said. ‘But I’ll be back. You even look at my sister, I’ll snip off your pork sword and feed it to you.’

Amber picked up a long screwdriver. ‘He won’t try anything.’

Donald rubbed his hands together. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll be millionaires.’

He left, and Amber shut the door.

Searing pain throbbed in Terrence’s hand as he stared at the ceiling. Of all the bars… How did I end up here? he thought. All the lies, the cons, the women, the shortcuts. God, I should’ve stayed in culinary school.

‘Finally, we’re alone,’ she said. ‘I read in Tinseltown Tattle that you like it rough.’ She ripped his shirt open and yanked his chest hair.

Terrence clenched his jaw and tried to speak.

‘Something to say?’ Amber removed the sock from his mouth.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m not Ethan Latrine.’

She crouched to meet his eyes. Her lips quivered. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ she whispered. ‘Donald says I’m stupid. Maybe I am. But not about this.’ She unzipped his trousers and held the screwdriver’s tip to his urethral opening. ‘For every lie, I’ll slide an inch inside.’

‘Wait, okay. I admit it. Let me go. I’ll give you the life you’ve always dreamed of. Don’t you want to be famous?’

‘Don’t mess with my head.’

‘Amber, I can take you far away from here.’

‘Donald says no man’s good enough for me.’ She glanced at the door. ‘But I don’t want to die here alone with him.’

‘Then let’s run away to India together.’

Amber’s eyes lit up. ‘Like in Gone with Love?’

‘Exactly. You’re Marlene, and I’m Winston.’

‘I love that movie,’ she said, waving the screwdriver around. ‘You have enraptured me, heart and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.’

‘Amber, I need you to save me.’

She pressed her nose to his. ‘You and me. Always,’ she said.

Donald barged into the room. ‘Get away from him. You don’t know where he’s been.’ He handed her a video camera. ‘Set this up, stupid.’

Amber screamed and drove the screwdriver into Donald’s temple. He collapsed into a seizure, thrashing in the garbage. She grabbed a cricket bat and hit him across the head, sending a sickening crack through the room.

Terrence stared, frozen in disbelief.

As Amber mashed Donald’s skull, she imagined herself in a glamorous dress, walking the red carpet with Ethan, flashes going off, perfume adverts, and her face on gossip magazine covers.

Terrence shut his eyes, but rhythmic, wet thuds echoed in his ears.

Panting, Amber dropped the bat and pressed play on the dusty CD player. God Only Knows by David Bowie crackled through the speakers.

‘We’ll dance to this at our wedding,’ she said.

Terrence stared at the brain matter on his knee.

Amber, her eyes full of delirium, climbed onto his lap. She caressed his face, leaving behind a streak of crimson. ‘I saved you,’ she said. ‘Our love… it’ll be like a movie.’

***

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