Galloway could not be found at Curtain; but Ryan had instructions from Hammersmith (through the ubiquitous Mr Lichfield) to take the show up with or without the Director.
‘He’ll be upstairs, in the Gods,’ said Lichfield. ‘In fact, I think I can see him from here.’
‘Is he smiling?’ asked Eddie.
‘Grinning from ear to ear.’
‘Then he’s pissed.’
The actors laughed. There was a good deal of laughter that night. The show was running smoothly, and though they couldn’t see the audience over the glare of the newly-installed footlights they could feel the waves of love and delight pouring out of the auditorium. The actors were coming off stage elated.
‘They’re all sitting in the Gods,’ said Eddie, ‘but your friends, Mr Lichfield, do an old ham good. They’re quiet of course, but such big smiles on their faces.’
Act I, Scene II; and the first entrance of Constantia Lichfield as Viola was met with spontaneous applause. Such applause. Like the hollow roll of snare drums, like the brittle beating of a thousand sticks on a thousand stretched skins. Lavish, wanton applause.
And, my God, she rose to the occasion. She began the play as she meant to go on, giving her whole heart to the role, not needing physicality to communicate the depth of her feelings, but speaking the poetry with such intelligence and passion the merest flutter of her hand was worth more than a hundred grander gestures. After that first scene her every entrance was met with the same applause from the audience, followed by almost reverential silence.
Backstage, a kind of buoyant confidence had set in. The whole company sniffed the success; a success which had been snatched miraculously from the jaws of disaster.
There again! Applause! Applause!
In his office, Hammersmith dimly registered the brittle din of adulation through a haze of booze.
He was in the act of pouring his eighth drink when the door opened. He glanced up for a moment and registered that the visitor was that upstart Calloway. Come to gloat I daresay, Hammersmith thought, come to tell me how wrong I was.
‘What do you want?’
The punk didn’t answer. From the corner of his eye Hammersmith had an impression of a broad, bright smile on Galloway’s face. Self-satisfied half-wit, coming in here when a man was in mourning.
‘I suppose you’ve heard?’
The other grunted.
‘She died,’ said Hammersmith, beginning to cry. ‘She died a few hours ago, without regaining consciousness. I haven’t told the actors. Didn’t seem worth it.’
Galloway said nothing in reply to this news. Didn’t the bastard care? Couldn’t he see that this was the end of the world? The woman was dead. She’d died in the bowels of the Elysium. There’d be official enquiries made, the insurance would be examined, a post-mortem, an inquest:
it would reveal too much.
He drank deeply from his glass, not bothering to look at Galloway again.
‘Your career’ll take a dive after this, son. It won’t just be me: oh dear no.’
Still Galloway kept his silence.
‘Don’t you care?’ Hammersmith demanded.
There was silence for a moment, then Galloway responded. ‘I don’t give a shit.’
‘Jumped up little stage-manager, that’s all you are. That’s all any of you fucking directors are! One good review and you’re God’s gift to art. Well let me set you straight about that —‘
He looked at Galloway, his eyes, swimming in alcohol, having difficulty focussing. But he got there eventually.
Galloway, the dirty bugger, was naked from the waist down. He was wearing his shoes and his socks, but no trousers or briefs. His self-exposure would have been comical, but for the expression on his face. The man had gone mad: his eyes were rolling around uncontrollably,
saliva and snot ran from mouth and nose, his tongue hung out like the tongue of a panting dog.
Hammersmith put his glass down on his blotting pad, and looked at the worst part. There was blood on Galloway’s shirt, a trail of it which led up his neck to his left ear, from which protruded the end of Diane Duvall’s nail-file. It had been driven deep into Galloway’s brain. The man was surely dead.