MASQUES OF SATAN (7 page)

When he was gone Sheilah asked Tim whether he minded her smoking. Tim shook his head. From a black Morocco leather bag Sheilah took a silver cigarette case and a lighter which she slid across to him. He lit her cigarette and she thanked him, a gesture which put Tim at his ease. They began to talk. Admittedly their conversation consisted almost entirely of Sheilah asking Tim about himself, his background, and his aspirations, but it was a soothing experience to have so much interest taken in one by this mature and glamorous woman. Tim did not care much for the cigarette smoke, though. It was not something to which he normally objected, but the brand smoked by Sheilah seemed to be peculiarly strong and to give off an acrid, scorched smell. It irritated his eyes and blurred his vision so that he found it hard to focus on her face. The subdued lighting did not help. Tim decided that he needed a drink and asked Sheilah if she wanted one.

‘Not for me, but you go ahead.’

Tim got up and turned round to see Owen deep in some confidential discussion with his ‘mate’ Dennis behind the bar. They were looking in his direction, and it occurred to Tim that they might be discussing him and Sheilah.

At that moment there was a sudden outcry from their direction. A door behind the bar opened and one of the barmen in his Hawaiian shirt came tumbling out, coughing and retching. Tim saw smoke and a bright flicker of flames through the glass panel in the door. A fire alarm rang. Dennis bellowed: ‘Right! Everybody out!’

Tim turned to Sheilah. She had risen and was beckoning to him. Without thinking he followed her through a pair of crash doors and into a narrow alleyway that ran alongside The Copacabana and opened onto the promenade. It was close to midnight and there were stars but no moon. Tim was momentarily sightless. Then he was seized by Sheilah who held him to her in an embrace against one of the high, windowless walls of the alley. He felt her curved, experienced shape beneath the silk of her dress; he felt her cold, smooth skin. Then she was kissing him passionately. Her lips, by contrast with the rest of her, were hot, almost burning, and her tongue flickered in his mouth like a flame. Again he smelt, this time almost from within, the strange acrid scent of her tobacco. As suddenly as it had begun the kissing was over, but she still held him to her, with a grip so tight it almost crushed his desire.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘But will you meet me tomorrow? After your show?’

‘Where?’

‘Do you know the Sunnybeach Holiday Camp? On the West Shore?’

‘I don’t know it, but I’ve seen signs to it.’

‘I’ll be there. In the Arcadia Ballroom.’

‘Why there?’

‘Because that’s where it’s Grab a Granny Night. Didn’t you know?’ Tim could just see her smile in the darkness.  

‘You’re not a granny, are you?’

‘I was. You do fancy me, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tomorrow night, then. The Arcadia Ballroom. Sunnybeach.’

‘Okay.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He heard the clack of her heels as she ran out of the alley. It was some time before he had sense enough to follow her out onto the promenade. There was no sign of her. He looked into The Copacabana and it appeared that the panic was over and things were returning to normal, but he felt no inclination to go back in.

The next morning Tim was at the theatre occupied with rehearsals for the next show in the season. It was a routine farce called
Some of Our Trousers Are Missing!
in which Tim was back to playing a small, meaningless part and stage managing. By the time rehearsals finished at one the events of the previous night seemed to him remote, fantastic, like a dream. After lunch Tim decided to take a walk along the sea front at Pontybwlch to work things out in his head. After an hour of aimless wandering he was still no clearer about his experience with Sheilah, the sun was beating down, and he was thinking of going back to his digs for a rest before the show, and to learn his meagre lines in
Some of Our Trousers Are Missing!

Suddenly a voice said: ‘Hello. Dreaming as usual?’ It was Tamsyn. She was walking her West Highland Terrier on a lead along the promenade in the opposite direction to him. There was no avoiding her, so he turned and fell into step beside her while Freddie the terrier pattered purposefully ahead of them. After a pause Tamsyn began to apologise for being sharp with him the previous night. Tim was surprised. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if he had forgotten the incident already. He began to feel powerful.

‘You’re really very good in
Deathtrap
, you know,’ said Tamsyn.

‘I didn’t think you . . .’

‘You didn’t think I noticed? Well I do. Why don’t you ask me out one night?’

When Tim was baffled and confused, as he was now, he usually managed to say the wrong thing. He said: ‘But I thought you were . . . spoken for.’

Tamsyn looked very solemn. She said: ‘Nobody speaks for me, Tim. Who told you I was?’

‘Owen. He said you and he——’

‘Christ! You don’t want to believe a word Owen says. He’s gay, didn’t you realise? Or bi anyway. And he’s all mouth and trousers. God, you’re green, Tim. Honestly, you’re so green, they could play hockey on you. It’s all right. No need to look like a crushed raspberry. I think it’s rather sweet. So when are you going to take me out? Tonight?’

‘Not tonight. I promised to meet someone.’ The moment Tim said it he regretted it, but he would not retract because that was to show weakness, and he had shown enough of that already.

‘Oh. Okay,’ said Tamsyn. She seemed disappointed, but at least she showed no curiosity about whom he was to meet.

‘But tomorrow. It’s a Sunday. No show. We could go for a curry . . . or something.’

‘Okay.’

Leaving the promenade, they descended some concrete steps on to the shingle shore. Tamsyn let Freddie off the leash and he bounded away up the beach while she watched him intently, making little chirruping noises of encouragement and slapping her strong, boyish thighs. Tim knew that Tamsyn had ceased to be conscious of his presence, and that he had involuntarily become a voyeur, prying into a secret personal moment between her and Freddie. He found the experience curiously exciting, arousing even; while at the same time he was being made aware that there would always be a part of her that would be closed to him, a locked door in her soul with the word DOG written on it.

That night in the dressing room, as they made up for the show, Tim was reluctant to submit to Owen’s interrogation about him and Sheilah.

‘Did she say anything about me?’ he asked.

 ‘I’m meeting Sheilah tonight,’ said Tim, taking some pleasure in frustrating his egoism.

‘Where?’

‘At Sunnybeach. The Holiday Camp on the West Shore.’

Owen seemed shocked for some reason. ‘Sunnybeach! My God, what d’you want to go there for?’

‘I don’t know. Ask Sheilah.’

‘You don’t want to go up there. Not to Sunnybeach.’

‘Why not? Are you jealous or something?’

They had been talking at each other through the brightly lit dressing room mirror. Every nuance of expression was evident. Tim saw Owen grimace involuntarily, then a slow subtle smile curled his lips as he carefully began to apply a tiny line of blue shadow to his upper eyelid.

* * * * *

The town of Pontybwlch lies on a headland. On the East Shore is a bay where the main part of the town is situated; the so-called West Shore overlooks the estuary of the River Dovey. It consists mainly of a number of select, wealthy dwellings, some Old People’s Homes, and the Sunnybeach Holiday Camp. Tim had not visited the West Shore (weekly repertory offers little opportunity for idle exploration), but he knew the way. It was fine and starry as he emerged from the theatre after the last night of
Deathtrap
, and at that moment nothing seemed more exciting than a twenty-minute walk through the dark to a mysterious assignation. Its ultimate purpose was something Tim tried to keep out of his thoughts. He was experienced enough in life to know how anticipation can desecrate the event.

The Sunnybeach Holiday Camp was easy enough to find. Tim did ask one passer-by and received for his pains detailed instructions and a rather odd look, of the kind that used to be called ‘old-fashioned’. This did not worry him greatly: the Welsh, he had noticed, particularly the senior ones, went in for funny looks.

The Sunnybeach Holiday Camp proved to be a large, fenced compound, well-situated on a bluff at the mouth of the Dovey. The fence enclosed a number of white, rather elegant Art Deco buildings with curved balconies and large, metal-framed windows. Evidently it was a step or two up from Butlins, but Tim was mildly surprised that the place was not better lit. There were lights in many of the windows but they were all yellow, faded somehow.

At the entrance was a dimly lit lodge in which sat a figure whose features Tim could not make out in the dark. He — Tim assumed it was a he — appeared to be reading a newspaper, but he did not seem to have enough light for such an activity. Tim walked up to the gatehouse, but the figure took no notice of him. Feeling he should make his presence known, Tim rapped on the window.

‘Can you tell me how to get to the Arcadia Ballroom? I’m meeting someone there.’

The man in the gatehouse looked up from the paper, but his face was still in shadow. Silently, and, Tim thought, rather contemptuously, he pointed to a large, white rectangular building only two hundred yards away. Along the windowless wall facing them, under festoons of dull red fairy lights, had been painted in huge lettering the words: ARCADIA BALLROOM.

Tim entered the camp and walked along the asphalt path that wound between lawns and joylessly elaborate formal flower beds in the direction of the ballroom. It was disappointing not to hear sounds of music or human activity. Nobody seemed to be about. Tim thought he saw someone going into the ballroom, but that was all. Apprehension now took the place of all other feelings; but Tim went on because he had a stubborn streak: he had made a promise.

Outside the Ballroom there were several posters on the walls in glazed frames, but they advertised events — concerts, variety shows, talent nights — from the previous year. However, the place was not shut, and Tim could see light of a sort coming from within. He entered a foyer, lit — just about — but deserted. Facing him was a pair of swing doors through which he entered the ballroom. The doors must have been very well oiled because they made no sound when he opened them, and did not even bang behind him.

The ballroom seemed much vaster on the inside than it had looked from without. Moreover, it was not decorated, as Tim had expected, with severe Art Deco elegance but in an ornate mock eighteenth century Fairground Rococo style. The walls and ceilings were slathered with plaster mouldings in the form of cartouches, caryatids, composite pilasters, and swags of fruit in low relief; at regular intervals along each side globes of electric light were held up by gilded plaster cherubs. From the high ceiling, on which was painted an indecipherable scene of celestial roistering, hung a huge glitter ball which turned and scintillated silently. All of the many lights were on, but none shone brightly. The place was lit with an unwelcoming even glow, the colour of parchment.

At the opposite end of the hall was a raised stage on which was ranged a set of music stands flanked by two vast loudspeakers in the shape of gilded trumpets. Just in front of the stage on the parquet flooring stood the solitary figure of a woman in a black silk evening dress. It was Sheilah. Tim could barely see her face except when she dragged on her cigarette. The glow of it when she did so appeared to be the brightest thing in the ballroom.

She threw the cigarette onto the parquet where it lay smouldering, unextinguished, and advanced towards him. Somewhere in the centre of the room, under the revolving glitter ball, they met.

‘You kept your promise,’ said Sheilah. ‘You came.’

‘Of course.’

‘Owen didn’t. He promised to come last year, but he didn’t show up.’