Knock Knock
by Gregory Heath
Wordcount: 2220
Genre: Psychological
Synopsis:
A washed up actor faces his final curtain.
First 500 words:
‘Jesus Christ, Tom,’ said Rupert. ‘You know how to pick your moments, don’t you? I’m on in a few minutes!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom, ‘I forgot there was a matinee today.’
‘That’s because you’re a useless agent,’ said Rupert. ‘And if you weren’t so useless you’d be phoning me with better news, wouldn’t you? You’d be phoning me to say I’d got the show.’
‘Now, Rupert, I can hear how upset you are, but there’s no need –’
‘You’re fired!’
‘Rupert! Just wait a minute!’
‘You’re fired, Tom!’
There was a brief silence, then Tom spoke to Rupert for what would turn out to be the last time. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
Rupert turned off the phone and poured himself a large whisky, his fifth of the afternoon. He gazed at the reflection in his dressing room mirror. The bulbs around the mirror’s frame cast a harsh white light upon his face and, despite the make-up, he looked older than his fifty-eight years. He felt it, too. He felt worn out. And though he’d only be on stage for a few minutes that afternoon, and a few more again that night, his portrayal of Macbeth’s porter was an unusually physical one – a ‘pantomime performance’ according to some of the less appreciative critics. He was tired just thinking about it.
Rupert was not one of those actors who could easily ignore the reviews, and the pantomime jibes had hurt. He had never done panto in his life, as the critics knew very well, and the insult seemed intended to suggest that such a fate lay just around the corner. Even some of the kinder reviews had left him feeling depressed, a couple of them having intimated that if this were to be his last role it would be a good one to go out on. Perhaps they thought him older than he was. Or maybe they suspected that his drink problem, which he’d finally been forced to acknowledge following an unfortunate incident in Harrods a few years ago, was catching up with him. Whatever their reasoning, one thing was clear – the implication that his career was nearing the end and retirement was beckoning. But retirement wasn’t an option, because Rupert hadn’t got any money. Three divorces, a bad property investment and the failed Harrods court case had seen to that. Not that the public could ever know such a thing, of course. That would be an indignity worse than any pantomime.
He tried to shake off such thoughts, tried to think of beginnings rather than endings. After all, he had been in regular work, more or less, for the last forty years; why not a few more? And it was his talent which had kept him in demand, he reassured himself, taking a large swig of the whisky – not Tom, or any of those other parasites. Yes, he’d be fine. He’d be better off without an agent, in fact, without some unimaginative leech taking their cut for doing bugger all.
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