Holes for Faces (6 page)

“That’s a twist,” said whoever was calling himself Terry Rice.

“Mr Rice is saying you’re not right, Eric.”

It was a funny way of saying so, even by the standards of a prank. Perhaps that was why she sounded nervous. “Then it’ll be
Rebel without a Cause
,” Edgeworth said with a grin but no mirth.

“That’s another.”

“Mr Rice says that’s not right either.”

She sounded close to desperation. However far they took the pretence, Edgeworth could go further. “It’s
Giant
for sure, then,” he said. “They’re the only films he starred in.”

“That’s one more.”

Did Edgeworth hear a faint suppressed shriek? Perhaps one of Mary Barton’s accomplices had poked her to prompt her to speak. “That can’t be right, Eric,” she said high enough to irritate his ear.

“Give up,” the supposed quizmaster said or asked, though Edgeworth wasn’t sure who was being addressed. “Eric can’t have heard of
Has Anyone Seen My Gal?
”

“Of course I have. I’ve seen it. James Dean has a milkshake at the soda fountain.” In case this failed to restore his own reputation Edgeworth added “I knew it was the answer.”

“Were you fancying a bit of fun? You should play seriously even if you think it’s just a game.” To Edgeworth’s disbelief, this sounded like a rebuke. “I expect your friend has something to say about it,” the man said.

“She’s not my friend and none of you are.” Edgeworth confined himself to mouthing this, if only to hear what comment she would have to manufacture. He heard her draw an unsteady breath and say “Thanks for coming on, Eric. I wish—”

“No point in wishing here. You know that isn’t how we play. Thank you for entering into the spirit, Eric,” the man said and, along with Mary and the girl who’d called, was gone.

Surely his last words contradicted his rebuke, which had to mean he couldn’t even keep the hoax up. Of course the number he’d called from had been withheld. It was too late for Edgeworth to go back to the commentary on the disc, and he returned the film to the shelf before tramping to the bathroom and then to bed.

With all his films he didn’t need to dream. In the morning he ate off a tray in front of
Third Time Sucky
, a Stooges short just the right length for breakfast. “I wish I knew what to wish for.” “I wish I had one of your wishes.” “I wish you two would shut up,” Moe retorted, the effects of which made Edgeworth splutter a mouthful of Sticky Rotters over his dressing-gown. He showered and donned his uniform, which said Frugotomovies on the sweater, and headed for the Frugoplex.

The cinema was an extensive concrete block that resembled the one where he lived. The February sky was just as flat and white. He’d chosen the apartment because he could walk to the cinema, but there were increasingly fewer new films that he wanted to watch; he hardly used his free pass any more. At least he didn’t have to enthuse about them to the public. He was gazing with disfavour at the titles outside when the manager let him in. “Any problem?” Mr Gittins said, and his plump smooth face displayed a smile too swift and sketchy to be identified as such. “I hope you can leave it at home.”

Rather than retort that some of his workmates were to blame, Edgeworth made for the anonymous concrete staffroom. Soon the rest of the staff began to show up, some of them not far from late. Without exception they were decades younger than he was. As he took his place behind a ticket desk Larry Rivers came over. “What were you watching last night, Eric?” Larry said with a grin as scrawny as his face.

Had he called himself Terry Rice last night? His name was similar, and he liked quizzing Edgeworth, who said “I was listening.”

“What were you listening to, Eric?”

He was using the name like a quizmaster. Edgeworth was tempted to confront him, but perhaps that was exactly what he and the rest of them wanted. “The man who wrote
North by Northwest
,” Edgeworth said.

“Don’t know it. Is it a film?”

Edgeworth suspected this wasn’t even meant as a joke. “Cary Grant,” he said. “James Mason.”

“Don’t know them either.”

“Hitch, for heaven’s sake.”

“Is that the film with Will Smith?” one of the girls seemed to feel it would be helpful to suggest.

“Hitchcock, love.”

“Sounds a bit mucky to me.”

“Sounds a bit like sexual harassment,” another girl warned Edgeworth.

“Alfred Hitchcock,” he said in desperation. “
Psycho
.”

“Was that the one with Vince Vaughn?” Larry said.

Did they all think the past—anything older than them—was a joke? No wonder Timeless Video had failed when there were so many people like them. Edgeworth had lost all the money he’d sunk in the video library, which was why he’d been glad of the job at the Frugoplex. Some old things wouldn’t go away, not least him. He was about to say at least some of this when Mr Gittins opened the door once again. “Only just in time,” he said like a head teacher at a school gate.

Mary Barton ducked as if her apologetic smile had dragged her head down. Did she glance at Edgeworth or just towards all the staff around the ticket counter? She seemed wary of being seen to look. She hurried to the staffroom and scampered back to the lobby as Mr Gittins addressed the staff. “Let’s keep the public happy and coming back for more.”

Edgeworth might have wished to be a projectionist if the job wouldn’t have involved watching too many films that bored him if not worse. He was reduced to noticing which film attracted the most customers, a dispiriting observation. Today it was the latest 3-D film,
Get Outta My Face
. Whenever there was a lull he watched Mary Barton at the refreshments counter opposite. Had her left little finger been bandaged yesterday? It looked significantly bigger than its twin. Her smile was if possible braver than ever, especially if she caught him watching, though then he stared at her until her eyes flinched aside. At times he thought her thin prematurely lined face was trying to look even older than it was, almost as old as him. He wasn’t going to accuse her and give everyone a chance to scoff at him; he wouldn’t put it past them to accuse him of harassing her. Instead he made sure she never had an opportunity to speak to him away from the public—she clearly didn’t have the courage or the gall to approach him in front of anyone who wasn’t privy to last night’s witless joke.

When he left for home she was besieged by a queue, but as she filled a popcorn tub that she was holding gingerly with her left hand she sent him an apologetic look. If they’d been alone it might well have goaded him to respond. He had to be content with stalking next door to Pieca Pizza, where he bought a Massive Mighty Meat that would do for tomorrow’s dinner as well.

He downed two slices in the kitchen and took another three into the main room, one for each version of
Touch of Evil
. He was halfway through Orson Welles’ preferred cut when the phone rang. He paused the manic gangling hotel clerk and prepared to say a very few short words to the uninvited caller. “It’s that time again, Eric,” said a voice he could hardly believe he was hearing.

“My God, you’re worse than a joke.” Edgeworth almost cut him off, but he wanted to learn how long they could keep up the pretence. “Can’t you even get your own rules right?” he jeered.

“Which rules are those, Eric?”

“Three mistakes and I was supposed to be out of your game.”

“You haven’t quite got it, my friend. Last night was just one question you couldn’t answer.”

“Trust me, I could. I was having a laugh just like you.”

“Please don’t, Eric.”

Mary Barton sounded so apologetic it was painful, which he hoped it was for her. He could almost have thought she’d been forced against her will to participate in the hoax, but any sympathy he might have felt she lost by adding “Don’t make any more mistakes. It’s serious.”

“He sounds it.”

“We get this problem sometimes.” The man’s amusement was still plain. “Listen to your friend,” he said. “See how she sounds.”

“I’m truly sorry to be pestering you again, Eric. Hand on heart, you’re my only hope.”

Edgeworth didn’t know which of them angered him more. Her pathetic attempt to convince him she was desperate made her sound as though she was trying to suppress the emotion, and he was provoked to demand “Where are you on the television? I want to watch.”

“We’re on the radio.” With a giggle all the more unpleasant because it had to be affected the man said “You wouldn’t want to, trust me.”

Edgeworth agreed, having left out the comma. What radio show would have inflicted this kind of conversation on its audience? All that interested him now, though not much, was learning what question they’d come up with this time. They must have been reading a film guide to have thought of last night’s. “Go on then, Mr Terry Rice,” he said, baring his teeth in a substitute for a grin. “Terrorise me again.”

“Do your best, Mary.”

“What’s the Alfred Hitchcock film where you see him miss a bus?”
            Someone stupider than Edgeworth might have imagined she was pleading with him. Did they genuinely expect him not to realise they were mocking what he’d said today to Larry Rivers? “
Strangers on a Train
,” he said at once.

“Have a closer look.”

He didn’t know if this was meant for him or the Barton woman, but her voice grew shrill and not entirely firm. “Not that one, Eric.”

“Must have been
The Birds
, then.”

“Closer.”

“Please, Eric,” Mary Barton blurted, and he was disgusted to hear her attempting to sound close to tears. “You must know. It’s your kind of thing.”

“I know,” Edgeworth said with a vicious grin. “I’ll give it to you.
Rope
.”

“Not close enough yet.”

“Please!”

Edgeworth jerked the receiver away from his aching ear. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

“It’s my eye.”

Was he also meant to hear a stifled sob? “That’s what my grandma used to say,” he retorted. “She’d say it to anyone talking rubbish.” Nevertheless he wasn’t going to seem ignorant. “Here’s your answer since you’re making such a fuss about it, as if you didn’t know. It’s—”

“Too late, Eric,” the man said without concealing his delight. “You’ve had your second chance.”

“Please…”

Edgeworth could only just hear Mary Barton’s voice, as if it was no longer directed at him. He was right to hold the phone at arm’s length to protect his eardrum from any surprises they had in mind, because he heard a shrill metallic sound before the line went dead. It was ridiculous even to think of searching the airwaves for Night Owl. He did his best to pick up the Welles film where he’d left off, but the twitching maniac in charge of the motel disturbed him more than he liked. He put the film back in its place among the dozens of Ts before tramping angrily to bed.

He lurched awake so often, imagining he’d heard the phone, that not just his eyes were prickly with irritation by the time he had to get up for work. He was going to let Mary Barton know he’d had more than enough, and he wouldn’t give the rest of them the chance to enjoy the show. “Eager to get going?” the manager said by way of greeting.

“I’m eager all right,” Eric said and grinned as well.

He clocked on and hurried to the ticket counter, hoping Mary Barton would be first to arrive so that he could follow her to the staffroom. She’d been warned yesterday about timekeeping, after all. He watched the manager let in their workmates and grew more frustrated every time the newcomer wasn’t her. Larry Rivers was among the last to join Edgeworth at the counter. “What were you up to last night, Eric?” he said.

Edgeworth almost turned on him, but he could play too. “Nothing you’ve ever seemed interested in.”

Somebody more gullible than Edgeworth might have thought the fellow felt rebuffed. No doubt he was disappointed that Edgeworth hadn’t taken the bait, and some of their audience looked as if they were. There was still no sign of Mary Barton by opening time. “Meet the public with a smile,” Mr Gittins said.

Perhaps the woman had stayed home because she was too embarrassed to face Edgeworth, unless it was her day off. “Isn’t Mary Barton coming in?” he said before he knew he meant to.

“She’s called in sick.” Mr Gittins seemed surprised if not disapproving that Edgeworth felt entitled to ask. As he made for the doors he added “Some trouble with her eye.”

Edgeworth struggled to think of a question. “She’ll have had it for a while, won’t she?”

“She’s never said so.” Mr Gittins stopped short of the doors to say “Her mother hasn’t either.”

“What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She’s looking after Mary’s children while Mary’s at the hospital. Happy now, Eric? Then I hope we can crack on with the job.”

As Mr Gittins let the public in, one of the girls alongside Edgeworth murmured “You’ll have to send her a Valentine, Eric. She isn’t married any longer.”

“Keep your gossiping tongues to yourselves.” He glared at her and her friends who’d giggled, and then past them at Rivers. “I’m putting you on your honour,” he said as his grandmother often had. “You and your friends have been ringing me up at night, haven’t you?”