Double-Act “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, here they are, those ‘whacky chappies,’ Roger and Barney!” The audience, already whipped into a frenzy of excitement by the preceding acts, applauded wildly as the two burst onto the stage, both wearing aging tuxedos whose provenance dated them to somewhere in the mid-eighties, when an appearance on the Royal Variety Performance had been the false herald of fame and fortune. The central lime picked them out stage-centre, and the two launched into the act that had barely evolved from that which had given them their only four minutes, thirty seconds of national air-time almost twenty years earlier. Roger always the straight-man, Barney the gag-man, the punchline, the one who got the laughs. In any double-act, there always had to be a straight-man; Roger never regretted that he was it. A successful double-act was always greater than the sum of its parts, and theirs, while not successful by the standards of Morecambe and Wise, or the erstwhile pairings of Flanagan and Allen and Nervo and Knox, had nevertheless survived for more than a quarter-century which had seen television even further dominate the entertainment business. The clubs and theatres of the North-West still provided them with sufficient venues to play so that they only occasionally had to update the act. Regular television performers were forced to constantly revise their material, since their audience was largely unchanging. For Roger and Barney, and a thousand like them up and down the country, a week was usually the longest they spent in any one place, before moving on to another stage, another audience. By the time they returned, the audience had either changed, or forgotten enough of their act that a lack of new material was unnoticed. And so they survived, more or less, doing the same patter, day in, day out, week in, week out. Occasionally it occurred to Roger to try and recall whether this kind of life had ever been part of his adolescent showbiz dreams. It was too long ago now for him to be certain, but he didn’t think so. He was fairly sure that those fantasies had involved bright lights, packed theatres, regular TV appearances, flashy cars, big houses, and a regular supply of beautiful female companions. Somewhere the dream had melted into reality. Still, it was a job, and it paid more than he would have earned working in an office or sweeping the streets. Fame had passed him by now, and he was more or less resigned to carrying on in the same way until death, ill-health or popular rejection called a halt. As they said in this line of work, “You never leave show-business, show-business leaves you.” As to what Barney thought, Roger had no idea. The two didn’t discuss such matters. The quickfire cross-talk between them was getting a good response from the audience. The theatre was around two-thirds full, not bad for a wet Thursday night. Steam from drying coats hung in the air above the auditorium; the follow spot fired a long, broad cone of milky whiteness towards them. As any stage performer could testify, the audience is almost completely invisible behind the glare of the lights, and Roger could see virtually nothing beyond the first row. Nevertheless, as the two roted their way through the act, firing punchline after feedline, pausing for laughs, using the timing honed through ten thousand performances, Roger noticed a very attractive woman sitting cross-legged close to the central aisle. Probably in her mid- to late-twenties, she appeared to be with two young children, who were fidgeting in the seats next to her. She was smiling, occasionally laughing, as the double-act reached the climax of its performance. Barney pulled off the last punchline and the two bowed elaborately to the generous applause, exiting with a wave stage-left, past the dancers who were waiting in the wings ready for the next act. The applause continued, and Roger and Barney returned for a further bow before leaving the stage and wandering down the narrow corridor to their shared dressing room. ~*~ Barney was slumped in the chair in front of the dressing table mirror, Roger in the only other seat, a battered armchair that had probably seen the arses of a thousand bottom-of-the-bill performers in its time. He took a swallow, too big to be called a sip, from the tumbler of whisky he had poured within thirty seconds of entering the cramped room. Not bothering to change or remove his greasepaint, he launched the good ship Johnny Walker on its oft-travelled voyage to the Land of the Pissed. Barney didn’t drink, but at least he had the good grace not to pass judgement on Roger’s habit. After a show, Barney preferred to sit quietly, presumably pondering his own performance, examining it for flaws, areas on which he could improve, and any of his lines that had been slightly mistimed. He had always been more professional than Roger. He never told Roger what he was thinking during these post-performance meditations, And Roger never asked. They had both reached the point where the act was all that held them together. Running a hand through his thinning hair, kept a ridiculously inappropriate shade of black by long patronage to the company of ‘Just For Men, Inc.’, he sank into bitter memories, mainly of roads not travelled. Already approaching the middle of middle-age, he had no wife and no home. The act kept them on the road for much of the time; during “resting” periods, he simply disappeared, reappearing at the venue for their next gig, having spent the intervening days or weeks in whichever seedy, third-rate digs he came across first. In essence, he had nothing. Nothing worth a shit, anyhow. “Did you see that girl in the front row tonight, Rog?” So deep was he into his wallowing, such good progress was he making towards eventual alcoholic anaesthesia, that the voice emerged as if from his own sour thoughts. Slowly, he realised that after all these years, Barney had actually spoken to him after a performance. He looked up at his partner, who was still slouched in the same position in his chair. “Hmm?” Roger murmured, giving himself time to fully re-emerge into the here-and-now. “I said, did you see that woman in the front row? Bit of alright, eh?” Roger remembered her. And yes, she had indeed been a ‘bit of alright.’ “Yeah, I’ll say. Got a couple of kiddies, though.” “That’s okay. Shows she’s been at it, doesn’t it?” Still surprised at his partner’s sudden willingness to talk, Roger sat up slightly. “I suppose it does, yes.” “I reckon she’d go like a train, by the looks of her. Good pair of legs on her.” Roger was beginning to enjoy this unexpected conversation, and decided to venture an observation of his own: “Bloody right there. Imagine them round your shoulders.” “She’d be mad for it, I reckon. What do you think?” “Definitely. Pity she’s probably married.” “What the fuck does that matter? She’d probably be grateful for a bit of away action.” Though the initial surprise at Barney’s sudden break with a lifetime’s taciturn habit had subsided somewhat, it swelled anew at his frankness. Nevertheless, Roger found himself agreeing with his partner. “I bet she would at that. Be good if she popped in for an autograph, eh?” He smiled. For the first time in more years than he cared to remember, tonight he may be able to avoid the after-show slough of despond into which he fell regularly. The conversation was actually beginning to cheer him up. Remarkable. Barney was speaking again. “That’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it? I think you could have her if you wanted, though.” Roger played along. “Yeah, how’s that?” “Simple. The show’s not over yet. Get changed, take of your war-paint and wait outside the main doors. There’s no car-park next to this place, so even if she’s driving, her car must be a fair walk away. And maybe she walked to the theatre from home. All you’d have to do is follow her till you found somewhere quiet. And that’s not going to be hard. It’s nearly eleven on a pissing-wet Thursday night in Barrow. The only people might see you are winos and crack-heads who see monsters every day of their lives.” “Barney, are you suggesting I…” “Yes.” The thing that shocked Roger most was his lack of shock at the suggestion. It was perfectly true that it had been years since he sampled the delights of the female flesh, and time was most definitely no longer an ally. He felt a stirring below the beltline that he had begun to wonder if he would ever feel again. Barney’s suggestion had excited him, and the more he thought about it, the more excited he became. “Well? What do you think?” asked Barney. “I don’t know. I mean, I think you’re right, she’d probably love a bit of rough, but…what if someone sees?” “Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t worry about that. I’ll watch out, tell you when the coast’s clear. There’s bound to be some back alley or something. And if there isn’t, just don’t do it. Simple. Look, we’re out of here tomorrow anyway. We’ll be in Bolton by noon. No one’s going to pin it on you; no one even knows you’re here.” He had never realised his partner could be so persuasive, and so calculating. It was true: the peripatetic nature of their profession meant they were never anywhere for very long. He had no friends in this town; not even any acquaintances to speak of. It was the closest to being invisible he could physically get. Roger downed the remainder of the whisky in his glass, but for the first time in a dozen years, did not immediately refill it. Instead he pondered Barney’s plan. It could work. It really could work. He looked at his partner, who was watching him steadily, waiting for his reply. Roger took a deep breath, shaky with nervous excitement. “Okay,” he said, “let’s do it.” ~*~ The fine, soaking rain was still falling as they left the theatre by the stage door. He really ought to have been there for the final curtain call, when the cast of the variety show was presented on stage together. But no one would wonder at his absence. They would assume he was too pissed to stand up, as was usually the case when he was missing. Tonight, however, standing outside the theatre, in the icy rain and raw wind, and with adrenalin pumping through his veins in place of alcohol, he hadn’t felt more sober in years. He glanced at his watch: Three minutes past eleven. The show had overrun slightly tonight. He walked slowly along the side of the theatre towards the main entrance, stopping at the end of the wall, not turning the corner. From here he could see everyone leaving. Hopefully, he would pick out the woman. The two children should make it easier. He turned up his collar, and waited. Barney waited with him, silent. After five minutes or so, the first people began to emerge through the double glass doors. Light spilled out across the steps, glinting along the wet pavement. Coats were fastened, umbrellas raised, cigarettes lit. Roger watched carefully, looking out for that slender figure with the two young children. He began to worry that he would be unable to spot her. The trickle of people had turned into a flood, and he was in danger of missing her if she happened to be on the far side of the bustling crowd. And then there she was. Relief pushed yet more adrenalin through his system. She was gorgeous, even more so than his brief glimpse had registered. And, what was even more thrilling, she had no children with her! They must have belonged to someone else after all. This was perfect, absolutely perfect. Despite Barney’s assurances, Roger had been worried about how he would deal with the kids. But she was alone. She fastened her coat and pulled on her gloves as she descended the steps, then walked off briskly down the high street, away from the majority of the crowd who seemed to be disappearing in the other direction. They followed the woman as closely as possible without attracting her attention. Roger could hear her heels clicking sharply on the wet tarmac, and for some reason, the sound excited him sexually. He wasn’t aware of having a foot or shoe fetish, but maybe he was about to discover one, after all these years. A hundred yards or so further on, the woman abruptly turned off the high street, into a much narrower and, to Roger’s delight, much less well-lit road. They turned the corner twenty yards behind her. This was it. They were on a street lined with houses. She might live in any of these; if she reached her house before he reached her, it would be too late. It was now, or not at all. He glanced at Barney, who seemed in the half-light to be giving him an encouraging smile. The woman reached a brief break in the housing, where half-a-dozen properties had recently been demolished. There was a patch of rough ground separating the house Roger was just passing from the next one along, a couple of hundred yards further on. This was it. Roger picked up his pace, his partner right with him. She looked round when he was ten yards from her. By this time, he was running. She had two seconds to realise what was happening, but it wasn’t long enough to draw sufficient breath for a scream. Roger reached her before she could react, slamming a fist into her temple and another into her solar plexus, knocking any resistance from her in two blows. She wasn’t unconscious, but he still had to virtually carry her onto the waste-ground; Unresisting yet uncompliant. Finding a section of still-standing clapboard fence, obviously previously the delineator of two properties, he left Barney on watch at the end and struggled behind the make-shift hideaway with the woman. As he half placed, half dropped her onto the rough ground, she began to make some effort at escape. As he pulled roughly at her clothing, seeking entry, her efforts became more frantic, more desperate. He slapped her hard across the face. As he was about to strike her again, he heard Barney’s voice from the other side of the fence, a harsh whisper. “No, Roger. Don’t to knock her lights out. It’s more fun with a bit of a struggle. Shove something in her mouth to shut her up.” Roger pulled a grim, off-white handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it as far into her mouth as he could, while pinning her under him. Finally he managed to lift up her overcoat and dress, and found her panties. She thrashed underneath him as she realised his intent. As his hand felt the warm material between her legs, he suddenly had a moment of doubt. What the hell was he doing? Was he really going to rape this woman? He saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at him. For this same instant she grew still, sensing the uncertainty in his mind, sensing that there might be a chance to escape. “Do her, Roger. Give her a good fucking.” Barney, whispering again, encouraging, goading. Doubt banished from his mind, he got to work again. The handkerchief did its job well but could not completely block the woman’s guttural sounds of panic and fear as she saw her last chance disappear. They added to Roger’s excitement so much, he had difficulty releasing his rampant erection from his trousers. Pulling her panties to one side, he at last found entry into her, thrusting her legs apart and pushing into her, thrilling to her despairing efforts to stop him, her muffled cries for help, the abject fright and pain in her eyes. And with his final release came her final despair. She stopped her thrashing, simply lying under him, staring at him with eyes that saw nothing. Spent, he returned his flaccid penis into his trousers, before hitting the woman once more, ensuring a safe escape before she regained consciousness. He pulled the handkerchief from her mouth, wet with her saliva, and pushed it back into his pocket, feeling the moisture on his leg. Barney waited for him and they left the woman lying on the ground behind the fence. So much adrenalin coursed through Roger’s system, he could barely remember returning to his accommodation. He slept more soundly than he had in years, notwithstanding the fact that he normally drank himself into oblivion. In the morning he felt incredibly refreshed, as though he had slept for a year. He packed, ate breakfast—again, for the first time in years—and he and Barney left for Bolton. They never mentioned the events of the previous night, but a sly, knowing smile on Barney’s face said it all. Roger returned the grin. The pattern was set. ~*~ It was so much better for him than the alcohol had ever been. Cheaper, too. The double-act worked just as well at this as they did on stage. This was not a nightly performance, however. That would have been much too dangerous. They decided between them that this extra performance would take place only once for each venue they played. If they happened to be playing a town for a week, then it was weekly. If they were there a fortnight, there would still be only one. Though Roger’s desire grew, he found he was able—with a self-control which he had hitherto been unaware he possessed—to stick to their agreement. On the next occasion, in Bolton five days after the first, he again suffered a momentary uncertainty about his actions. But again, Barney was there, reassuring, encouraging. Barney was always there. And yet, he never wanted a part of the action. He seemed content to help Roger find a suitable woman, formulate his plan, keep watch while Roger enjoyed himself, and dispel any doubts that occasionally crept into his mind. In fact, for the first time ever, Barney was playing the straight man. The first time he actually killed a woman was a mistake. He simply hit her too hard. Or maybe she already had something wrong with her. He never found out. At first he was mortified by what he had done. He lay over her, shaking her, trying in vain to wake her up. He was scared; he looked around the deserted playground, feeling certain that he would be discovered. Barney, watching at the entrance, gave him a confident smile. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “No one’s around. Why don’t you go ahead and give her a humping. See what it’s like to fuck a stiff.” Roger did. Christ it was good. The knowledge that he had actually killed this woman, ended her life, transmuted from shock and disgust to such a heightened sexual ecstasy as he penetrated her, he could last no longer than half a dozen rapid strokes. Afterwards, Barney eased from his mind the shame at his latest perversion, reminding him of how good it had felt. After that, killing was all part of the fun. He didn’t set out to kill, but if it happened, it was a bonus. Or that was how Barney described it to him, and Roger agreed that was a good way of looking at it. ~*~ Their tour of the northwest continued, unchanged as it had been for many years. Wigan, Widnes, Manchester, Warrington, occasionally up as far north as Carlisle and Workington, Liverpool and Birkenhead the southern limits of their empire. And in each town, at some point during their stay, an extra performance, when they switched roles and Roger took the lead role in their partnership. And four months later, they were back in Barrow for a week at the Empire. Friday night was their last appearance. It was a good show; Roger was on form. By this time he had virtually given up the bottle, something he had never expected to do. It had simply faded from his thoughts. Where alcohol blotted from his mind the reality of his meagre, underachieving life, now he sought clarity and sobriety in order to experience the thrill and excitement that had entered it. He and Barney actually introduced new material into their act, bringing it more up to date than it had been since that long ago flirt with fame on the stage of the Prince of Wales Theatre, Drury Lane. It had even crossed his mind that maybe one day they could actually tread those very boards again. So much seemed possible now. And tonight was the night of the extra performance. He couldn’t believe his luck. She was just standing there, alone. The street was deserted. Though it was mid-February now and bitterly cold, her skirt ended a good six inches above her knees. She did not appear to be wearing tights. That was good. Tights were always such a fucking nuisance to deal with. Choosing his moment, Roger left Barney watching from the shadows of a deep doorway as he attacked the woman, immediately striking her hard on the side of her head and in stomach. This method of suppression had been successful for him all along, and the seasoned performer in him saw no reason to change material that was still working. He dragged her quickly into the shadows and dropped her to the floor. As he ripped off her skirt, the woman came round, not slowly and groggily like the others, but suddenly, in an instant, taking him completely by surprise. He was straddled over her, in exactly the wrong position for what happened next. With unbelievable force, the woman thrust her knee upwards, crushing his balls and sending a searing explosion of pain outwards from his groin. Grunting in agony, trying to recover the situation, he fell on her, raining blows downwards. The pain sapped him of his strength and his aim, however, and those that found their mark did so ineffectually. The two of them struggled, the woman fighting at least as hard as he. His desperation increased, his panic burgeoned. What should he do? Should he just run? But the woman had seen him now. She might follow him. She would call the police. The only way was to kill her. But she was so damned strong. How could a woman possess such strength? None of the others had. With a last effort of self-preservation, his fists at last began to find their mark with more power. Though she was still fighting, he knew he was hurting her. Unable to stop her calling out, though, she was screaming in fear and exertion. He had to shut her up. He raised his arm and concentrated every bit of his strength into delivering a final blow to her face. Then found that he was unable to deliver it. Something—no, someone—had grasped hold of his wrist. The policeman was accomplished in hand-to-hand combat; Roger never stood a chance. He felt his arm pulled up his back far enough that he was convinced his shoulder was dislocated. An arm coiled itself around his neck and pulled his head back, constricting his throat, restricting his breathing to sustenance level. In this hold he was dragged to his feet, unable to struggle, unable to call out, unable to move beyond those moves his captor demanded. The woman stood too, unsteadily, tenderly feeling her bruised, bloodied face. She spat in his face and punched him hard in the stomach. The policeman told her to desist, but there was no conviction in his voice. Nevertheless, she confined her reactions to a glare of the purest, most distilled hatred Roger had ever seen. Finally, managing to grab a little more breath than he needed just in order to maintain consciousness, he began to protest at the harshness of the policeman’s grip. “Just think yourself lucky I’m not doing what I’d like to do to you, you shithead,” spat the policeman. “If you give me any reason whatsoever to think you might be trying to escape, I’ll show you exactly what that is. And I’d jump at the fucking chance, so just try me.” Roger, seeing the brief flowering of his dull life rapidly coming to an end, felt black despair enveloping him. “But…but, it’s not my fault,” he whined, surprised to hear the pathetic tone of his voice, unable to prevent it. “Not your fault? You were beating the living crap out of me, you bastard.” The woman’s voice, by contrast to his own, was strong, steady, resolute. “But he made me do it. He made me do it.” “Who?” “Him. Barney. He’s my partner. He told me to do it. It’s his fault.” He stared at his partner, the other half of the double-act, who had given him the idea, who had always pushed him on, had showed him how good it could feel. Barney was still in the doorway, watching. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t come to help him, but hadn’t run away either. Roger nodded his head in his partner’s direction, the only gesture that was available to him in the policeman’s steel grip. “It was his fault, his fault. Arrest him, not me. Let me go, it was him.” Then he switched the focus of his despairing plaints from the policeman to Barney, who was still staring at him, motionless. “You bastard. You said it would be okay. You said you’d watch out for me. You told me it was safe. You bastard. You bastard.” The strength of his words caused the policeman to turn his gaze in the same direction. Peering through the darkness, he could see nothing, no one. Then, down towards the ground, he spotted the focus of Roger’s anger. A small, rather battered looking, wooden ventriloquist’s dummy, dressed in a black dinner jacket. In the shadows of the doorway, he could just make out the dummy’s painted grin and piercing black eyes. He frowned, confused. Then he felt a wetness on his bare wrist. Bitter tears trickled down Roger’s face as he continued to shout at his partner. His words were becoming slurred and disjointed as his grip on reality loosened, even as the policeman’s grip on him tightened. “You bastard, Barney. You bastard. You told me…said it would be okay…bastard…told me it was safe…you bastard…you told me, said it was okay…you bastard, you bastard Barney, you bastard…” And Barney said nothing.
Copyright © 2002 Simon King |