“Yeah?” Carr said, expressing neither surprise nor interest nor welcome, his voice very different from the warm, trained tones he used professionally.
“Mr Carr, Justin,” Mick said enthusiastically. “I’m a great fan!”
Carr rolled his eyes in theatrical disbelief, and said under his breath, “Thanks.” His hand was on the edge of the door ready to close it briskly, but Mick said, “I wonder if you could do me a favour?” and his foot was in the door before Carr could take any further evasive action.
“That all depends,” Carr said.
“Of course,” said Mick, the smile still on his face, but now with an additional look of soft, supplicating humility. “I only want an autograph.”
“You have a pen, I suppose.”
Mick did. He held out a pen and a video cassette of Roo. The cover showed an illustration of Carr clutching and kissing a blonde, basque-clad actress in a scene that, as far as Mick remembered, didn’t appear in the finished movie. Carr took them and said, “This won’t write on plastic,” and he pulled out the insert card and autographed that, scrawling across the actress’s bare shoulder. There was little space for a signature and the autograph spilled over on to the dark colours of the rest of the design where it became invisible. Mick looked on disappointedly.
“Maybe if you signed the other side, the blank side of the card,” he said.
Disobligingly Carr turned the Card over, signed it, said, “OK,” and handed it back.
“Much better,” Mick agreed.
“Gotta go now. Got a bath running,” said Carr.
Mick’s foot remained in the door, and although the smile stayed on his face Carr was now aware of the threatening bulk and presence of his visitor.
“You don’t mind signing autographs?” Mick asked.
“It’s very flattering,” Carr replied unconvincingly.
“You do it often?”
“Not in circumstances quite like these, no.”
“You get a lot of fans chasing after you? Women?”
“No.”
“Or aspiring actors who want to know the secret of your success?”
“No.”
“Hey.” Mick spread his arms in a big open gesture. “I’m being a pest, aren’t I? On your doorstep, with you only half dressed.”
“That’s right,” Carr agreed.
“So why don’t I come in?”
“No,” Carr said firmly.
“Why not?”
Carr’s voice changed, became harder, more actorly. “I’ve given you my autograph, that’s as much as I owe you. That’s as much as you’re entitled to. I’m going. So if you’d move your foot…”
He tussled with the door but Mick’s foot resisted the effort.
“He’s given me his autograph, aren’t I the lucky one?” Mick sneered. The dark clouds rolled across his demeanour for a second, then just as rapidly rolled away, but the sudden darkening was more than enough to disconcert Carr. He continued trying to close the door as Mick asked him, “What’s your favourite film? Who’s your favourite leading lady? Who’s your favourite director?”
As though he was slipping into character, Carr became strong, forthright, heroic. “Move your foot,” he said. “Now.”
It was convincing enough as a piece of acted authority but Mick was unimpressed. Without warning he gave Carr a slap across the face. It wasn’t hard, and it was surprise more than anything else that sent Carr staggering backwards into the hallway. Mick followed him in and closed the door behind them.
“I really do admire some of your work,” Mick said. “But that’s not the point. It’s not why I’m here. I’m not here as a stalker or some crazed fan.”
“What do you want?” Carr wanted to know. “What the fuck do you want?”
“An old line. I’ve heard that before somewhere. And I usually reply that I just want to talk.”
Carr appeared suddenly very frightened and desperate. Mick noticed the actor’s hands were shaking but perhaps they’d been shaking all along, and not only from fear.
“OK,” Carr said, trying hard to gain a little control, his voice designed to calm both himself and his assailant. “Let’s talk. You’d better come up.”
He scrambled up the stairs ahead of Mick, the boots making him comically awkward, into the body of the house, a single open space that looked cluttered yet uninhabited. The walls were bare and painted white, the floor was completely covered with pale jute matting. There were no chairs, no table, no sofa, but a mattress was laid out under the windows as though someone was camping out there. Black sheets and a duvet spilled across the floor.
The absence of furniture was countered by a littering of electronic toys: a giant flat-screened television with speakers placed in corners of the room and an integrated stereo system, an electronic keyboard, a fancy telephone with built-in fax machine, a video camera on a tripod, an exercise treadmill, a radio-controlled toy truck. Everything looked pristine and new, expensive and state of the art.
And strewn amid this hardware were empty bottles — champagne, saki, mineral water — stacks of CDs, overflowing ashtrays, Rida papers, glossy magazines, telephone directories, a couple of movie scripts. It was an adult playroom. Can-looked as though he had been playing for a long time but whether alone or with others Mick couldn’t tell.
Carr positioned himself in the middle of the room, accustomed to being centre stage, yet he seemed to be troubled by his lines, and he didn’t quite have the measure of his audience yet. He looked over at all the expensive gear he had accumulated.
“If this is a burglary,” he said to Mick, “you’ve struck very lucky indeed. I hope you’ve got a van.”
Mick ignored this, then as if something had been preying on his mind he said, “I thought you told me you were running a bath.”
“I lied. I was trying to get rid of you.”
Mick considered the answer, deciding how insulted he ought to feel at having been lied to, and whether he should do something about it. He looked around the room, taking it all in, as though he might be asked to make an inventory, then he said, “Give me your wallet.”
Without a fuss, Carr picked up his jacket which was bundled on the floor, fished out the wallet and handed it over.
Mick said, “I’m going to take your money because if I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to afford to stay in the rathole I’m staying in and then I’d be on the street in a doorway or something, so you can look on this as a way of fighting homelessness. OK?”
Mick examined the contents of the wallet. There wasn’t much cash in it, but he showed no disappointment. In fact he seemed preoccupied by something else. “This is what’s called a mews house, yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Carr.
“Funny word, mews.”
“Not really,” said Carr.
“No?”
“Originally it meant a cage for hawks, especially when they were mewing, which is another word for moulting. In the fourteenth century the king’s mews were in Charing Cross but Henry VII disposed of his hawks and used them as stables. The usage spread. Most London mews were stables at one time or another.”
As he spoke he visibly gained confidence and stature. Having lines to say suited him.
“Is that right?” Mick asked.
“Yes.”
“How did you know that?”
“Some research I once had to do for a part I was playing.”
“Well, thank you, Justin, that was very educational,” Mick said, and he sounded as though he might almost have meant it. “I suppose there must be mews houses outside of London but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one. By and large people outside of London wouldn’t be seen dead in converted birdcages, would they?”