by Anne Kobori

 

            “Don’t look, baby.”

Too late.

            The splashes of blood are dark against the snow. Nothing like the vivid red stuff we use in abundance in our horror films. I shiver slightly and look over the misted ice I skated on so often as a girl. The low humming of the freezing system throbs in my head like the chainsaw from yesterday’s filming. I shiver again. Ben notices this time and crushes me in his warm embrace.

            “Sorry we had to stop here, baby. You could walk – its only three blocks to the studio.”

            “That’s all right. Anyway, I’ve never seen you work before,” I say. My throat is almost choked with anticipation.

The call had come at 6:35am, just as Ben was driving to my apartment from work. He had the night shift at the police station, and I had to be on set early for hair and make-up. Normally he would come at 6:45 for sex and breakfast, and we’d drive over to the studio together. He said watching me on camera turned him on. The director didn’t mind. I always hammed it up when he was in the audience.

Ben and the rink manager begin to shovel crimson snow from the pile, and I cringe but don’t move away. Most people couldn’t stomach the sight of blood-soaked snow being tossed haphazardly in their direction, but I could. Came with the job.

            Ben’s shovel hits something with a dull thud. My heart makes a similar sound.

            “Baby, why don’t you go get some coffee and wait for me?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Cally-”

            “Ben, relax. I see shit like this all the time.”

I can sense the muscles in his neck tighten.

“Calypso. What you see all the time is fake shit on set. Get inside unless you want to throw up.”  He only calls me by my full name when he’s pissed.

Probably mad about skipping the sex.

I ignore him nonchalantly.  Even when he shoves his unshaven face right in front of mine with his “armed police officer” look, I don’t break character. My acting is too good and he shrugs and goes back to work.

            The body is frozen solid and caked with blood. It looks like the dummies we use in the films with prosthetic cuts that are grotesquely shaped to the director’s desire. It doesn’t look real.

            But I know the face.

*          *          *

            “Calypso Strete?”

            “Yes.”

            “I have a few questions for you. I can see you’re distraught, so I’ll try to make this brief.”

            So kind of you.

            Ben isn’t the primary investigator for this case, deemed to possess too close a personal connection with those involved. The man seated across from me at a makeshift interrogation table pales next to Ben, in looks and stature. Only the cold stare behind the horn-rimmed glasses promises a threat.

            “Ms. Strete. You worked with this…Damian Jones, yes?”

            I nod curtly.

            “In what capacity?”

Don’t patronize me.

“We act in the same film.” My green eyes are flashing with irritation by now. I let them wander. The old ballet bars and broken mirrors are the leftovers of a childhood. My childhood. Silver blades whooshing across the ice-

“Ms. Strete?” His voice slices through my reminiscing. “Can you elaborate?”

Calm down.

“He plays my best friend who becomes possessed and tries to…to rape me.”

Tries.

“And you were very close to Damian?”

“Well…yes. He’s been in the business longer than me. He’s in high demand for leads in Hollywood but is doing this film as a favor to the director. And he always is – was – very supportive.”

“Supportive enough to offer you a four year contract as his leading lady if you moved to LA with him?”

Shit.

“How do you know about that?”

“How does Ben know about that?”

“Ben knows?” My heart lurches.

“He often complained about it at the station.” His eyes gleam viciously. “Is that a problem, Ms. Strete?”

“N-no.”

Yes.

 “Did Ben ever seem jealous of Damian?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“No? He never commented on your physical proximity on camera?”

“Apparently not, unless he was commenting to someone else,” I say, pressing my lips together.

He changes tactics.

“You were one of the first to see the body. Did you notice anything peculiar?”

Oh God.

I catch my breath as the image of Damian’s bloody corpse plants itself in my vision. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to banish it. But the memory of his face lingers.

“It was…” I swallow convulsively.

I can’t do this. Please.

“Ms. Strete?” The voice has a bite of impatience.

Bastard.

“It was…bloody.” I clench my jaw. “Very bloody. There were cuts…slashes, all over the….the body.” My face in the jagged mirror is paling steadily.

“Where were the cuts? Can you remember?”

“All over his chest, and …on his neck…and his…head-” A whimper escapes my numb lips and I clamp my hand violently over my mouth.

I remember.

*          *          *

            Damian’s trailer is achingly empty without him. With cold fingers I caress the curve of his cheek in the photo on the make-up counter. Strong jaw line and high cheekbones. Bronze skin. Beautiful eyes. A perfect face for the camera. A handsome face, even in death.

Except when he was…

            “Cally?”

            …acting.

            “What are you doing in here?” Ben’s feet are heavy on the steps. “In the dark, all by yourself?”

            I pause, my finger on Damian’s lips. “Just looking. At his stuff. Remembering.”

            Remember, his lips…

            “Do you remember the last time you saw him?”

            …in the dark.

            I am silent.

            “Didn’t he go to your trailer after the shoot?”

            I hate his interrogation voice. So superior, so accusatory. I have had enough interrogation today.

            “Yes. To rehearse.”

            He grabs my arm and pulls me closer violently. My gasp is the perfect blend of fear and desire.

            “Is that all you did? Just rehearse?”

            “Yes.”

            “Just acting?”

            I nod. No screenwriter would pen three yes’s in a row.

            “You acted out the scene.”

            Except he wasn’t…

            “And then you fucked.”

            …acting.

             “What are you talking about, Ben?” My voice is calm. Infuriatingly so. And he responds as I intended.

            “You fucked! You lay down on the couch, or the floor, or the goddamn make-up table and you fucked. Just like you’ve done every time he’s in your trailer rehearsing.”

            “Who told you that?”

            “Kye.”

            “Damian’s understudy?” I look searchingly into his clear blue eyes. “And you believe his word over mine?”

            “I don’t know when to believe you anymore, Cally.”

            “I need you to believe me now, Ben. Please.” Fervently I clasp his hands and widen my eyes in supplication.

            “Don’t play the tragic heroine with me, Calypso.” He spits my name out like a whore’s. “I fell for you, not the characters you play. I want the truth.”

            I straighten. Let go his hands.

            “The truth is that Damian was in love with me. And…I hadn’t decided yet whether I’d go with him to LA.”

            “How could you even consider it?” His words were armed with outrage at my betrayal.

            You can play the jilted lover, and I can’t play the tragic heroine?

            “Were you in love with him?”

            Yes…no.

            “I don’t know.”

            “How can you not know?” He demanded.

            “I just – he has so many connections in LA. He could offer me so much. A stable career, a job in Hollywood – Hollywood, Ben! A chance to be a real actress, in real dramas, not these third rate horror flicks.”

“It’s all about the fame for you actors, isn’t it?”

“No. It was an opportunity he was offering. A business opportunity.”

“And that’s better than what I can offer you?”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.” The slightest inflection makes it a question.

At my silence, his voice turns ugly. “So, how does this business relationship work? Let me venture a guess – you suck his dick and he puts you in Oscar-nominated films?”

            I try not to wince. “Why are you so obsessed with that?”

            “Call it highly-charged interest.”

            Eyes blazing, I turn away. “It doesn’t matter.”

            “Everything matters in my line of work, baby.”

            “Well, I didn’t fuck him. But this isn’t about the sex.”

            “You’re damn right it isn’t! It’s about you making me the prime suspect with this little plan to run away with your Romeo to Hollywood!”

            Oh.

            “They’re charging you?”

            “Not yet.” His eyes are hard as diamonds. “But they will.”

            “What about Kye? He’d get the part if Damian was gone.”

            “My motive is much more compelling.”

            “Oh, Ben…” Cautiously, tenderly, I stroke his pale gold hair. He stiffens, then gradually leans into my touch. My arms wrap around his neck of their own accord and I lay my head on his broad chest.

            “I’m sorry.” I whisper to the darkness.

            So sorry.

            “I know, baby.” He kisses my hair softly. “I know.”

            Can you forgive me?

            “Just tell me one thing.” He releases me from his arms. “Would you have gone with him?”

            Yes.

            “No,” I say, meeting his eyes without guilt.

*          *          *

            “You shouldn’t have kept me waiting.”

            “Waiting? But I’ve been looking for you everywhere…I looked in here – you weren’t-” I stop, gasping for breath. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go, let’s just go.”

            “Why do you want to leave this place?”

            I look at him in wild disbelief. “Don’t you remember what happened? We can’t stay here! They’re coming!”

            “No one is coming?”

            “What?”

“They’re already here.”

I gasp involuntarily.

            “Are you afraid of me?”

            I laugh hysterically at the absurdity. “No.”

            A demonic gleam in his eye, he advances on me slowly. A twisted smile haunts his lips.

            “Maybe you should be.”

            I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Kye!”

            He stops mid-stride.

            “What?” he asks in his normal voice.

            “You looked over my shoulder! You can’t look over my shoulder because the camera’s right there! Your eyes need to be locked on mine for that take. Got it?”

            He nods, looking defeated. I bite my lip.

            “Hey, why don’t we go rehearse on set? The cameras will be there, even if no one’s operating them, and you can practice with the gurney and the props.”

            “But everything’s locked up.”

            “I have a key to the studio. Damian and I were always staying late to rehearse, so the stage manager made me a copy.”

            Kye picks up his leather jacket from the floor and shakes it dejectedly. The guy looks in need of an ego boost. Lightly, I kiss his cheek and slip the key into his palm as we step into the cool night air.

            Kye DuMonte. French-Caribbean, and his stage name is flashier than most. I admire the well-muscled body and chiseled features from the corner of my eye. He is just as handsome as Damian, but gives off a different aura – rebellious rather than suave. I can tell by his strut and the set of his mouth that he doesn’t appreciate being bossed around by younger women. Tough luck. He’s a natural actor and he’ll get used to dealing with five cameras and bluescreen and a demanding scene partner.

            He hits the lights, but I turn them all off except for one.

            “Sets the mood. Dark scene, dark lighting,” I say as we step onto the set. He nods, and wheels over the gurney. Sticky red pools from the day’s filming have stained the cold metal, and underneath I can see traces of a darker red.

            “Maybe we’d better wait on scene twelve ‘til the gurney gets cleaned up.”

            “What’s wrong? Afraid to get your hands dirty?” He grins roguishly at my discomfort.

            I never was, until now.

            “Here, I’ll get the props for scene eleven.” I preset the old chair, breakable plates, and wooden chest. The old fashioned ice skates next to the chair have spotless steel blades.

            “Let’s take it from your fourth line.”

            “Are you afraid of me?”

            I laugh hysterically at the absurdity. “No.”

            A demonic gleam in his eye, he advances on me slowly. A twisted smile haunts his lips.

            “Maybe you should be.”

            I clutch the chair behind me for support. “What are you talking about?”

            He comes closer. Frantically, I run to him and slap his left cheek.

            “Michael! What’s wrong with you?”

            He grabs my wrists and twists them until I scream.

            Stop. Please stop.

            “You shouldn’t fight me, Jess. It will make everything easier.” He slams me onto the ground. I shriek wildly. He stops my screams with his lips.

            Remember, his lips in the dark.

            I wrench my mouth away and try to stand. He pushes me back down and tears off my shirt.

            Kye, why are you hurting me?

            He kisses my lips, my neck. A strangled yell escapes my mouth.

            “Don’t scream,” he whispers seductively.

            “Stop!”

            “Why? Aren’t you enjoying this?” He tangles his hands in my hair.

            My hair pulls agonizingly as I get away from him and grab the skates, slicing his arm with the blades.

            “Cally, what the fuck?”

            “You were hurting me!”

            “You said in rehearsal it was fine for me to grab you like that!” He looks at me helplessly. “I was acting! It’s just pretend! What I was doing isn’t real!”

            “Yes, it was! You’re just like him!”

            Just like Damian.

            Suddenly he looks at me in horror. “They said there were slashes all over his body…”

            His blood drips from the blades in my hands.

*          *          *

            Dazzling sunlight warms my skin as I lounge outside the Universal Studios backlot.

            “Hey, dudes, check this out!” Julio, our supporting actor, brandishes a newspaper excitedly. “In the small town of Berkeley, Detective Benjamin Harris was convicted of two brutal murders…sentence could be for life…bodies buried in nearby ice rink…murder weapon identified as skate blades!”

            “Sounds like it would make a good movie,” drolls the assistant director, sipping an iced tea.

            “Calypso, you’re from Berkeley, did you know this guy?”

            Casually, I flip my Chloe shades back over my eyes.

            “Yeah, he’s just somebody I acted with once.”