ISBN 1-59201-034-2
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
http://www.booksunbound.com
Publication September 2004
Cover Art by D. Lee
Shakespeare is Alive and Well and Living in Sun City
Allen Lyne
Copyright 2004
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are
either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental and not the goal of the author or
Books Unbound.
Prologue
The Skull. Flesh gradually
grows. Cheeks. Chin. Forehead. Lips slowly form. Eyes pop into sockets.
Hair on scalp. Eyebrows. Skin on ears. Nose. Face smiles. "Now for a body.
Ooooooooooooh, give me a body. Please, purrrrrleeeeeease, I want a body!"
Setting the Scene
1
What is the use of owning a car
with a two-hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar price tag if the rotten thing
breaks down? The middle-aged man stood beside his car. The bonnet was up and
he was waiting for roadside assistance.
He moodily watched the stream
of Sun City's peak-hour traffic pouring past. It began to rain once again, and
the man went back and sat behind the wheel of his car. The clock on the
dashboard read 7:30 pm, the time of his arranged meeting. He took a tiny,
slim, mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket and punched a number. When
the phone was answered, he barked a password into the mouthpiece. "Emus are
cranky."
"Because they can't fly."
"My car has broken down. I
can't make the rendezvous today... you have received the money? ...Why not?
...Call the stupid bitch and tell her to pay up by tomorrow. I will meet them
with the stuff at number seven rendezvous when payment is received. ...Not
eleven, seven …S - E - V - E - N. Repeat the number...." He replaced the
mobile in his pocket.
This was a very careful man.
There were many numbered locations for meetings, and everybody in his network
operated on a need-to-know basis, even the man's own daughter. Mobile phone
conversations were cryptic, passwords were always used and were changed
regularly. Few people were allowed to come to the headquarters or even knew
where it was. The records for the business were carefully hidden from prying
eyes.
He trusted no one.
2
In a windowless room with black
painted walls, three grey-haired, exceptionally ugly old women danced around a
boiling cauldron. One large candle in a corner of the room shed its flickering
light on the scene. It looked like something from a nightmare as the old women
chanted and cackled and danced, pausing from time to time to hurl ingredients
into the cauldron. There was a vile smell in the air, but the old crones
apparently did not notice. Their dark eyes flashed as they danced and chanted,
and the warts and growths on their faces wobbled and jiggled in time with their
movements. Evil permeated the air.
Double double strife and trouble,
Cauldron boil and potion bubble.
One rat's liver two toad's eyes,
Wing of bat, surprise surprise.
Essence of snail, brain of newt,
Entrails of dogs, oh it's you beaut.
Stir stir stir.
They danced and cackled and
hurled more ingredients into the cauldron. The chant resumed.
Double double strife and trouble,
Cauldron boil and potion bubble.
Dingo's earwax, possum's tail,
Koala's guts, this shall not fail.
Double double strife and trouble,
Cauldron boil and potion bubble.
Oh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
The oldest of the weird sisters
scooped a ladleful of liquid out of the cauldron and held it up as the other
witches sniffed the aroma. "It is good, sisters. It is potent."
"Much mischief shall it cause."
The second witch went into a paroxysm of cackling.
"But take pause, sisters." The
third witch held up one of her claw-like hands. "We must ensure that she who
orders this potion has immunity from its effects."
The older witch poured the
contents of the ladle back into the cauldron. All three witches linked arms
and went into a trance, rocking back and forwards. Their eyes glazed over.
Spittle ran down their pointed chins. They moaned and groaned and cursed as
they sought the right words for the chant. Then, as one, they began.
Ooona poona ponga paringa,
Osmosis taringa poo.
When we finish this we conjure,
What we say is true.
Let she who bade us cast this spell,
Nostrils never shall they smell,
The perfume from this liquid grand,
Shall enter other olfactory gland.
And she shall reign sublime serene
And no effect on her we ween
Oh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
And make them mad and make them mad
Will make us glad yes make us glad.
Oh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."
The three witches continued their mad dance until one by one they succumbed to
exhaustion. A sickly, sweet, cloying smell filled the air of the windowless
room.
As the witches slept, the
liquid in the cauldron slowly morphed into a fine powder.
3
It was Jeffrey's thirty-eighth
birthday, but he was working. There are numerous reasons why people work on
their birthdays--most workers have to-- but most people in Jeffrey's job had a
choice. Part-time cab drivers can take time off when it suits them. Not
Jeffrey. Alimony, rent to pay, groceries to buy. Just surviving was an art
form for him.
Jeffrey's cab was parked
outside Sun City's Arts Centre. It was a large, modern, dome-shaped building
with silver tiles adorning its roof--a roof that became the walls of the
building as it sloped right down to the ground. The foyer was acres of highly
polished slate, million-dollar wall hangings and massive windows that from the
outside looked the same as the tiles on the roof. On the inside you could see
right through them. It gave patrons sitting in the coffee shop--or people
standing anywhere near the windows--a feeling of power that they could see and
not be seen.
Jeffrey had been inside Sun
City's Arts Centre many times to attend plays, concerts and operas, sitting in
one of the plush blue-upholstered seats. He yearned to be something more than
a member of an audience.
There was an air of
disenchantment about Jeffrey as he sat in his cab watching happy, well-fed,
well-dressed citizens filing into the theatre. He had just dropped a guy in a
million-dollar suit and the slinky, blond, shiny-haired, beautiful woman who
went along with him. She was a little too thin for Jeffrey's taste, with the
look of someone who dieted a bit too hard.
Arms are too thin. Give her ten to fifteen years and her neck will have that
old hen look if she doesn't eat properly.
Jeffrey still would not have
thrown her out of his bed. Jeffrey wouldn't have thrown many women out of his
bed. Since his marriage ended a year before, sex had been a very infrequent
commodity.
He was a part-time actor,
mostly amateur, sometimes getting jobs in profit-sharing casts, never anything
fully professional.
Yet!
Jeffrey was one of the many
actors around the world convinced of his talent and convinced that the break
would come just as soon as the world realised that here was one super-talented
thespian, ideal for a variety of roles, just waiting to be discovered.
Two cabs were in front of him
on the rank. He smoked out of the window, waiting his turn. The Arts Centre
was right next to the main Sun City railway station, so when trains came in
from the outlying suburbs there was never much problem picking up fares.
Spring raindrops splattered his
shirt sleeve. The rains had come early this year and the air had that heavy,
humid tropical feel that heralds the build-up to the monsoons. Lightning
flashed to the east out to sea as the precursor of heavier rains. Down by the
shore, people in the numerous bars, restaurants and zillion-dollar mansions
could see heavy rain-clouds dropping tonnes of water into the ocean.
Not that it mattered if it fell
into the sea. The one commodity--apart from sun--that Sun City had in spades
was water. The first couple of days after the onset of the monsoon would fill
the reservoirs and water tanks to overflowing.
Jeffrey was one disgruntled
cabby on this hot, humid, damp evening. With the engine turned off, the
air-conditioning was not working and sweat trickled down his face, arms and
torso. Irritably he wiped the sweat from his face and hands for the umpteenth
time.
I want to be inside the damned theatre, not sitting out here in a cab waiting
for a fare. I want the smell of the Green Room, to hear the soft pre-play talk
of the other actors, to do a warm-up, get into character. I want to feel the
fantastic buzz that goes with the period just before the play goes up.
Jeffrey knew that there was no
feeling in the world like being an actor. The adrenaline rush just before you
went on. The emotional build through the play--if you were lucky enough to be
a major character. That amazing feeling as you took your bow at the end with
the applause ringing out and the hairs on the back of your neck standing up
because you know they've loved you. Coming down for hours after the
performance. The boozy after-play parties. The relationships. The
camaraderie. It's better than sex. Well, on a par with the best sex, anyway.
Not long ago some of these people might have been coming to another theatre to
see me. Well, not me exactly. To see a play I had a minor part in. Today I
drive stupid people around in stupid cabs for a stupid living--and I want to be
a full-time actor. Want to play Hamlet.
I did.
One dreadful understudy
performance. To be or not to be...? Story of how many lives? How many
pumping petrol? Opening doors? Bartending? Waiting?
Waiting.
He looked up and both cabs were
gone, so he moved up two spaces. The rain was coming down a bit harder now,
huge drops that exploded with force wherever they landed. He wound up the
window, then quickly wound it down again as the intolerable heat enveloped him
in its sweaty arms. The windshield and off-side windows of the cab were
running with water, and he could barely make out movement. Then a goddess
opened the door and slipped quickly into the cab.
She was gorgeous, maybe
thirty-five to thirty-eight. A snazzy dresser in a green, low-cut
figure-hugger of a dress. A looker who might be a hooker. The curves were all
in the right places. Slender waist, C+ cups, loooong legs. Red hair.
Red for danger?
The goddess climbed into the front seat with a rustle of soft, smooth
material against skin and upholstery. She had pale skin, wore dark eye make
up, but not too dark or too overdone. A pretty mouth smiled at him, Jeffrey
was a face man and especially a sucker for a pretty mouth. The mouth told him
where to go.
"Glassie Street Sun City."
"Maybe you mean Sin City?"
No glimmer of a smile or acknowledgment of any kind. She thinks I'm on the
make. I'm not. Well, no more than usual. This one oozes class. I couldn't
afford the price tag of the expensive champagne that no doubt passes those
beautifully curved lips and courses down the inside of that smooth white throat.
Control yourself, Jeffrey Case.
"Two Glassie Street Sun City, yes ma'am."
Jeffrey pointed the cab east
toward the sea. He switched on the wipers before he left the kerb as rain
continued to tumble down. He saw that she was trying to dry her face and hands
with a useless silk handkerchief. Jeffrey silently indicated the box of
tissues on the dashboard and she smiled her thanks as she extracted a handful
to complete the drying process. She was not all that wet. She had come
straight out of the Arts Centre and into the cab, which meant only seconds in
the rain.
The Green Goddess looked a
little nonplussed as she looked for somewhere to put the sodden tissues.
Jeffrey smiled as he took them from her and put them in his little plastic
rubbish bag. He melted as she smiled back at him. It was cosy in the cab with
the rain and the feeling of humidity, even though the air-conditioner was
keeping them cool.
They cruised in silence until
the cab pulled up outside the apartment building at 2 Glassie Street, a luxury
high-rise where four million might get you a one-bedroom apartment. It was a
sheer, white edifice--all glass and tile and strange angles. It gave the
impression that some architect had designed it while stoned or drunk or both.
The building was in the most expensive part of Sun City. There were
exceptional views of city and sea from the higher units, but people in units or
apartments below the fourteenth floor had to be content with views of other
apartment buildings just like their own.
They pulled up outside the
building and as they did the rain stopped as though some God or other turned
off a tap.
She unzipped her purse and
almost smiled as she asked what the fare cost. Her hand was poised over the
opening. "Want to cut it out for a look?"
Jeffrey didn't even think about
it. Two kids. Huge alimony. He was battling to make his rent week to week.
"Just the nine ninety-five lady. I've seen them before. A ten? Gee, thanks."
"I'm sorry, I don't have
correct change."
She has her hand out.
"You want change? Change? Five cents? I don't have five cents."
"In that case I can't pay the
fare."
She smiled at him, but he saw
no humour in the situation. "Here's ten cents. Don't spend it all at once."
He was one pissed-off cabby.
No tip? After I gave her my tissues for free?
The door slammed. Hard. I
don't give a shit. Not my cab. "Last of the big spenders, lady."
The fucking rich. The fucking tight-arsed, tight-lipped, tight-fisted,
wanking, fucking rich.
He quelled his rage.
Just another stitch in the broad tapestry of life. She's got problems, not me.
She'd get knifed in some cities trying that bullshit. Pity the way that turned
out. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
Jeffrey calmed down as he
cruised toward Sun City's main drag hoping for a street pick-up before he hit
the next rank. He figured there was bound to be a few late theatre-goers.
Maybe he would find someone as they finished dinner in one of the many
restaurants and bars along the seaside strip and heading for a big spending
night at the casino with a bird.
Anyone?
No one.
He found the nearest rank and
pulled in. There was nothing showing from base on his computer, which was
unusual for a Friday night at 8:10 pm.
Should be a lot busier. Rain's keeping them inside.
There were eight cabs in front
of him on the rank, so it would be some time before he got a fare. He lit a
cigarette, opened the door and got out to stretch his legs. One of his fellow
cabbies three cabs up was also outside. He waved to Jeffrey and made as if to
come and talk to him. Jeffrey waved and turned his back, dissuading the other
cabby. He didn't feel particularly like idle chat.
At thirty-eight, he was very
close to having a mid-life crisis. The trouble with Jeffrey was that he rarely
listened to anyone. He could have been a rich man as his family's business was
worth millions, but Jeffrey had been dumb enough to get himself disinherited.
His father had wanted him to follow in his footsteps and take over the chain of
hairdressers and tobacconists when he retired, but Jeffrey had been bitten by
the acting bug. He was determined to make it as an actor.
So his parents had sold up the
business and moved south to a more congenial climate. He could have fought the
will after his parents died in a light-plane crash, leaving all their worldly
goods to a sister who hated Jeffrey with a vengeance. But no, Jeffrey was
convinced he could make it on his own terms. At thirty-eight, it was getting a
little late.
He ground out the cigarette
butt under his heel and climbed back into the cab. A job flashed on his
computer. The cab at the front of the rank eight cabs away took off. A few
minutes earlier and he could have cruised to that one legit.
Swings and roundabouts.
He lit the thirtieth for the day, careful to keep the smoke out of the
window. The rain started to pour down again and his arm got wet. The
cigarette was soggy after three draws. Irritated, he threw it into the gutter
and pulled his arm back inside the cab. The rain once again stopped like
someone had flicked a switch. He glanced in his rear-view mirror and noticed
two objects on the back seat.
Happy birthday to me. She's
left something behind. Hope it's valuable.
Jeffrey got out of the cab and
opened the back door. On the seat was what appeared to be a bowling ball
wrapped in the same green silk as his last passenger's dress. There was a
large brown manilla envelope beside it.
Rich bitch tight arse goes bowling? Never.
He picked up the object. It
felt funny, sort of squashy and yet firm at the same time. He unwrapped the
parcel and a pair of very dead eyes stared out at him. A gob of dark, thick
blood hit his shoe. He blacked out.
It must have been only for a
second because he came to still standing in same spot looking down at a head.
Alas, poor Yorrick....
Jeffrey looked about furtively.
Has anyone noticed?
Pedestrians passed close by, but no one paid attention to the ghastly severed
head in his hands. It is amazing how little most people notice. He re-wrapped
the head quickly and placed it in the boot of his cab. Then he sluiced the
blood off his shoe in the water running down the gutter. White-faced, he
re-entered the cab and moved up two vacant spaces without thinking about it.
Shit! A Head? Where did it leave its body? I always wanted to get ahead.
This is no time for puns.
Jeffrey started to grab his
mobile phone to call the cops, and then changed his mind when he remembered the
envelope. He reached into the back seat, took the envelope and tore it open.
A strange perfume wafted into the air. It had a sweet, cloying almost sickly
scent.
Money. Lots of money.
Jeffrey locked the doors and
held the money under the dashboard as he quickly counted the one-hundred dollar
bills.
Two hundred grand.
Two hundred grand? Pays a lot
of alimony. Buys a lot of groceries. Pays a lot of rent. Maybe buy my own
cab if I can launder it. The money, not the cab.
But, shit, can I do this thing?
Some sucker's been separated head from body. Murder? Seems likely. If I get
caught am I accessory? Probably, if I don't report it. Two hundred grand?
Can I just report the head and not the booty? Who was Hot Lips at 2 Glassie?
He started the cab and pulled
out of line. The other drivers looked at him with curiosity, knowing he was
not heading for a fare. After retracing his route to 2 Glassie Street, he sat
outside the apartment building, looking up at the lighted windows wondering
which unit belonged to the Green Goddess.
What do I do? Knock on each one of a couple of hundred doors inquiring? What
would I say? "Hi. I'm looking for a beautiful woman wearing a green silk
dress who left a head in my cab?"
He shook his own head.
I want the two hundred grand.
Is red-head is in real trouble?
She must be rich living where she lives. Maybe I can help? Be Sir Galahad?
Worm my way into her life? Could be a whole new beginning. I can see myself
on a luxury yacht cruising the Greek Islands, dining in plush restaurants with
hot and cold running waitresses, staying at 9 star hotels.
He left the cab and moved up
the flood-lit, eye-achingly white marble steps to the front door. The doors
were locked, and he stared at the red security buttons connected to each
apartment. He stood and thought for a moment before pressing a button. His
buzz was answered almost immediately.
"Pray, who is there?"
"Pizza for 17."
"Forsooth! This is 71."
"Sorry, dyslexia." Forsooth?
There was a buzz and a loud
click as the door slid open and allowed him to enter. Security cameras in all
four quarters of the lobby swung round to point at him and followed his
movements as he moved further inside. Indoor plants proliferated, and there
were mini-palms and green and yellow ferns, the heady scent of bougainvillea
filled the air and the brilliant red colour of the plant dazzled the eyes as it
grew up two of the interior walls.
First time I've ever seen bougainvillea growing inside.
A fountain with a black marble
backdrop sat in the centre of the lobby. A white naked-boy sculpture piddled
into the middle of the fountain in neo-classical poor taste. His stream
tinkled into a large pond filled with red, silver and gold fish that flashed in
the artificial light. They were huge, by far the biggest pond fish Jeffrey had
ever seen. There was running water from a small waterfall cascading down the
black marble, and it fed into the pond. The splashing noise of the water--and
the young lad's activities--acted suggestively. Jeffrey looked around for a
visitor's lavatory, but there wasn't one.
He moved across the vast
expanse of the lobby to the residents' boards by the four elevators and ran his
eyes down the names on the boards.
Richard Two, Richard Three. They number the Richards in this building? The
Duke of Milan? Italian royalty? William Page, Young Marcius, the Princess of
France? French royalty? Weird names. Characters from the plays of William
Shakespeare. Pseudonyms? The list goes on and on. How do I find her?
An old man shuffled out of an
office at the far end of the lobby. The office had the legend 'security'
printed on its door. The old man looked worse for wear, obviously pissed, as
he lurched towards Jeffrey and stopped a metre or so away.
"Here's a knocking indeed! If
a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. Knock,
knock, knock! Who's there in the name of Beelzebub? Here's a farmer hanged
himself on the expectation of plenty. Come in time; have napkins enow about
you; here you'll sweat for it...."
What is this guy on about? Why is he doing The Porter's speech from
Macbeth? "Excuse me, could you tell me--?"
"Knock, knock, knock! Who's
there in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could
swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for
God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven."
This all sounded familiar, but
Jeffrey reasoned that it wasn't getting him anywhere in particular. "Can I ask
you a question?"
"O, come in, equivocator.
Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither
for stealing out of a French hose. Come in, tailor, here you may roast your
goose. Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too
cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further. I had thought to let in some
of all professions that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. Anon,
anon! I pray you remember the porter."
This porter is crazy, but he still might know something.
Jeffrey tipped him a couple of
bucks. He took the money. "I'm looking for someone who lives here. A
good-looking woman in a green dress."
The porter did not reply, just
stared straight ahead with a glazed expression, then he gave a massive yawn and
stretched. Jeffrey could smell booze on his breath.
"Tired, huh?"
"Faith, sir, we were carousing
till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things."
Okay, I'll play along.
"What three things?"
"Marry, sir, nose-painting,
sleep and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the
desire, but it takes away the performance...."
This long-winded discourse was
interrupted as the elevator door opened disgorging a man in his late twenties,
early thirties. He stepped briskly out as soon as the elevator doors opened
and stared directly at Jeffrey. He was of average height and build with a
rather stiff, upright posture and military bearing. What made him odd was the
white wig that sat atop his head. It had a straight flat top with curls at the
sides, front and back, a little like a judge's wig, but a bit more realistic
than that. The man wore a grey suit that had been out of date since the 1950s.
To top off the odd, eccentric appearance, he carried a gold-handled cane and
wore a Pince-nez on his nose.
A Pince-nez? No-one wears them anymore, except in plays. …And why wear a
white wig?
He moved towards Jeffrey,
pushing the porter roughly aside as he came. The porter stumbled back into the
security office and closed the door.
"Whom do you seek?"
Expression as old as his suit.
"Red-haired woman. Good looker. Green dress. Left something in my cab."
"I know no person of that
description living in this abode. You are not welcome unless you are visiting
a specific person for a specific reason. Kindly leave."
"Well I thought I'd just ask
around a bit, see if I could find her. Like I said, she left something in my
cab."
"I am not asking you to leave.
I demand that you do so forthwith."
Jeffrey brushed past him,
heading for the elevator. "Like I said, I'll ask around."
Bloke's got a mean, hard look in his eye, but shit, he's smaller than me.
Jeffrey was caught in a grip of
iron, an arm around his neck, a hand gripping the seat of his pants. The door
swung open. He was given the bum's rush out and down the steps. His knees
were skinned. The elbow was out of his shirt and his arm had a nasty graze on
it.
"Do not return." The door
slammed.
Jeffrey shakily rose to his
feet.
Wow, some bouncer.
He brushed himself down and returned to the cab.
I tried. What to do now? I can't find the bird. I want the two hundred
grand. I've got a head in my boot. Shit! And base is calling to see if I'm
still working. He punched in an acceptance and headed for the airport.
On the way, Jeffrey opened the
envelope with one hand and checked the money. Counterfeit? His nose twitched.
Same perfume I noticed earlier.
The cloying, musky, sweet smell
filled the cab and stuck to the seats and paintwork. A faint green film rubbed
off onto his hands. He wiped them on his trousers and transferred two grand
into his wallet.
At the airport he picked up an
80-year-old lady passenger. She immediately propositioned him.
He said 'no'.
She began to yodel.
Jeffrey looked at his watch.
5:00 am. He was standing on a cliff top nine miles out of Sun City facing
east, watching the sun rise out of the sea, head in hands. Not his own, the
severed job.
If I chuck, there's no turning back. If I don't, what happens? Don't think.
Chuck.
He watched the head as it floated out from him, as if he had nothing at all
to do with it. The head turned over and over, heading for the sea at the
bottom of the cliff. He saw the green silk separate from the head and fall
independently.
Jeffrey turned away feeling
sick. It took him three goes to light a cigarette with his trembling hands.
He climbed back into his own car and took off.
It's done. No more head. I'm ahead, two hundred grand.
The huge black falcon hurtled
out of the sky and dive-bombed the head, picking it neatly out of the air with
its talons only metres above the grey, swelling sea. It turned quickly and
caught the silk in its beak as it fluttered down. The falcon squawked loudly
and soared back into the air, described an arc, and flew back towards Sun City.
Allen Lyne's biography
Allen Lyne lives in Adelaide, South Australia with his wife, Sandra,
step-daughter Bethany and his white rabbit, Thumper.
He has had jobs as varied as truck driver, Royal Australian Navy seaman, grape
picker, as well as actor, writer and director for theatre, film, radio and T.V.
and lecturer in Drama at Adelaide University.
In 2003 Allen's
A Handicap for the Devil?
was published by
Books Unbound
. Allen is also the author of 39 plays that have been produced in various parts
of the world. Most of his plays have been written on commission or while he was
part of a theatre company.
His children's stories have been produced on Network Ten's television program
Mulligrubs in Australia and other countries.
Allen and Sandra currently own The Bearly Together Company, a comedy
dinner-theatre company that tours Australia. Bearly Together also produces
original children's shows.
A Handicap for the Devil was Allen's first book and not his last. He believes
that laughter is essential for health.
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