The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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face in! – Oh, it’s you,’ says our Scottish comrade, all in one distinctly unpleasant breath.
‘None other,’ says Sid. ‘Where is everybody?’ Mac sits up and shakes his head.
‘They’re out looking at locations. We had a bit of a party last night.’
‘It looks very convivial,’ says Sidney. ‘When are we going to start shooting?’
‘You have to be very careful with that word around here,’ says Mac ‘There’s a lot of unrest between the Turks and the Greeks. At any minute it could get very nasty.’
‘The ones we saw looked under no strain,’ says Sid. ‘Are the locals Turks or Greeks?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell the difference. The trouble is that they can. It’s one of the reasons why we haven’t been able to get any sets built. They won’t co-operate. It’s worse than the bloody unions back home.’
‘Here we go, Sid. I hate to say “I told you so”, but –’
‘Shut up! What about the camera crew?’
‘Some of them are here.’
‘Some of them?’
‘The others had to go back and tend the vines.’
‘Oh my gawd! Have they ever seen a camera before?’
‘It’s difficult to tell. None of our equipment has got through customs yet.’ Sidney’s face is that of a man deeply disturbed.
‘So what have you been doing for the last ten days?’
Mac holds up a bottle to see if there is any liquid left in it. ‘Looking at locations and, and –’
‘And getting stoned!’ shrieks Sidney. ‘This is diabolical. All this moola I’m laying out and there’s nothing to show for it except a load of pissholes in the sand. Where’s Loser? Where’s the cast?’
‘What day is it?’ says Mac.
‘Thursday.’
‘Well, they were here on Tuesday night, or maybe it was Wednesday. Yes, it must have been Tuesday because that was the night Justin auditioned the belly dancers.’
‘Belly dancers? I thought this was supposed to be a horror film?’
‘They were horrible, some of them. Awful. Great rolls of fat and gobbling Turkish Delight all the time. I was –’
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ howls Sid. ‘This is ridiculous. Is everyone going mad? We’re supposed to be making a film and I’m standing in a tent in the middle of the bleeding desert with nobody here and sod-all happening. Somebody’s got to get a grip!’
There is a dramatic pause disturbed by the sound of a vehicle approaching, the note of its engine punctuated by multiple backfires.
‘That must be them,’ says Mac helpfully.
‘There’s enough of them, isn’t there?’ I say, giving the cauldron another little stir.
Indeed, the screams and shouts of drunken laughter are echoing from many throats, some of them widening out into a pair of bristols by the sound of it.
‘Now I extend my hospitality,’ says Justin’s voice, full of the bogus enthusiasm I know so well.
‘So soon after the last time? My friend, I congratulate you. He is a most frisky little fellow, is he not?’ This voice is full of Eastern promise and as rich as honeycake. Further information about the condition of Justin’s frisky little fellow is denied us because the man himself pushes into the tent and pulls up sharply when he sees Sidney. For a split second his cool skips a few degrees above freezing point, and then the smile bounds back onto his lips as if held by a piece of elastic round his neck.
‘Sidney. Timothy. What a lovely surprise! I don’t think you’ve met Abdul ben Krafti, our local Mukhtar and very good friend.’
‘Not unless you used to wrestle under the name of Istan Bull,’ says Sidney. ‘I once had the pleasure at the Wimbledon Baths Hall.’
‘I have never visited the bath in my life,’ says Mr Krafti, and few standing to windward of him would care to argue the point. He makes Ken Loser seem like a Lifebuoy advertisement. He is a large, fat man with a hair-brush moustache and clobber straight out of the illustrated New Testament my Aunt Nora gave me one Christmas, and which I changed for a copy of Advanced Sexual Techniques two days later. Well, I was nine at the time.
‘The Mukhtar is being tremendously helpful in getting us established,’ burbles Justin. ‘He really knows the lay of the land.’
And more than one of them, I would say, by the look of some of the crumpet that is beginning to straggle into the tent. Knock-out birds with long black hair and eyes as deep and dark as treacle wells. A bit on the BC side threads-wise for my taste, but that seems to be the rule out here.
‘We’ve got a bit of way to go though, haven’t we?’ says Sidney, allowing a slight edge to creep into his voice.
‘Mr Nogget here has a hefty stake in the financing of the picture, so we have to be very nice to him,’ says Justin meaningfully, nudging Abdul with his eyes. Mr Krafti bows respectfully.
‘He who holds purse strings enmeshes fingers deep in short and curlies. Jolly good fun.’
‘Abdul performed Trojan service on our behalf during the war. Stoker ben Krafti I believe it was, eh?’
‘Senior service, not Trojan service,’ corrects Abdul. ‘Yes, I served under the old red duster, cor blimey. I know what the sailor boys like.’ He rolls his eyes and smacks the rump of one of the birds who is bending down to collect the bottles. Sidney coughs.
“Very interesting, Mucker,’ he observes, ‘but how are we getting on with Revenge of the Monster from the OK Corral?’
‘That’s only a provisional title,’ says Justin hurriedly. ‘I’m certain we can do better.’
‘Bugger me, I hope so,’ says Abdul.
‘I don’t want to give offence, Ben,’ says Sid, ‘but where precisely do we stand at the moment?’
‘You stand exactly forty-five metres due east of Bhirim Agrabad’s millet store,’ says Abdul helpfully.
‘Relax, Sidney,’ interposes Justin smoothly. ‘Everything is under control. It hasn’t all been wine, women and song, you know. It’s very bad form in this country to refuse hospitality, so we’ve had to play along for a bit.’ I wonder which bit, I think to myself. I would not say no to any of them.
‘I understand that,’ says Sidney. ‘I don’t want to offend the Mugger. We probably wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for what him and his lot did during the war.’
‘Cor blimey, yes,’ says the Mukhtar.
‘What worries me,’ continues Sidney without pausing for breath, ‘is the question of when we are going to start shooting.’
‘Shooting. Yes, shooting.’ Abdul nods vigorously and draws his fingers across his throat in a gesture that I find rather puzzling.
‘Virtually immediately,’ says Justin. ‘We sorted out a marvellous location today.’
‘Sort out! Bloody great sort out!’ Abdul is doing more nodding.
‘I’ve abandoned the idea of building sets. We can save money and time if we use a local village. Change the setting of the movie to the Mexico border and nobody is going to know the difference. I think we’re going to make a killing.’
‘Yes! Yes! You never say a truer word, matey,’ exults Abdul, his eyes revolving like catherine wheels. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill! We get the bastards this time.’
‘Tremendous enthusiasm,’ says