Dead in the Water

By Francis John Stevenson

Dead in the Water is an unconventional detective story, set within the environment of staging a new production of a large off West-End musical. The narrator is an unwitting sleuth, perhaps better suited to finding lost spectacles than solving a mysterious death and is dedicated to the consumption of coffee, beer and curry, in the true tradition of the british theatre technician.
The author has been working in the industry for several decades and brings his specialist knowledge to the book, hopefully in an amusing way. This book is the first of a series, which will examine little known areas of the theatre business, and kill people in a variety of entertaining and unpleasant ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis John Stevenson
• Release date: Apr 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458004031

Francis John Stevenson

Although British in origin, he was born in the Peoples Republic of China in the 1960's, now works in the theatre industry all over the world.

Book preview

Chapter 1

In any work of musical theatre once the overture has been dealt with, it is the custom to open proceedings with a song, so here goes; ‘it was just one of those things, just one of those crazy things.’ A moment of indecision and weakness prompted by indigestion and too much beer caused me, instead of saying no as I should have done, to give in, and say yes. Thus I unwittingly became a party to this whole gruesome and painful episode.

I should perhaps introduce myself; when at an early age I decided that I was going to work in the theatre, a deeply distressing episode involving tights, pan-stick and badly made tudorbethan trousering convinced me that I had a very real aversion to presenting myself before the public. Since that crucial point I have carved out a small and by no means successful career working on the other side of the safety curtain.

In anybody’s theatrical career, there must, I assume, come the time that I think I reached several years ago, when it becomes clear that perhaps you won't ever be running a department at the National, however depressing that might be. This doesn't necessarily mean you lack merit or talent, but rather that you found the wrong patron, went to the wrong school or university, or in far too many cases just aren’t pretty enough.

So there I was, only sporadically successful, usually in work, but most commonly in the wrong work, and not often being called upon to exercise my mind much. At this point in the narrative I had only just returned from a few days away from home at a particularly ghastly conference and product launch in a rain bound Harrogate Conference centre. My most imperative need had been to place myself and my long-suffering, but always willing, partner outside many beers and a large vat of curry. Later on, once we had satisfactorily boosted our chilli levels, we took on board a few more beers at our convenient and scabby local where the clock stopped a few years ago and the landlord has never felt the need to wind it. As we sloshed gently home, the near-terminal boredom of four days in a five star hotel listening to the chairman of Widget Industries puffing up the dubious virtues of the new Kevlar widget, not just once but in innumerable rehearsals, gently ebbed away, and I had the pleasing prospect of a night in my own bed. For once with my partner beside me; too shagged to shag, as Oscar might have said on a bad night, still, at least neither of us had to get up in the morning.

Once our ablutions were completed, we flopped into the bed, and arranged ourselves into that comfortable shape that lasts only until you both get too hot. I set the radio alarm for Woman’s Hour, switched off the light, and away we drifted into a guilt free, alcohol fuelled sleep.

I rolled over just as Jenni Murray was introducing another item on the menopause, it was probably about time I got up, or if I didn’t, someone else would have to make the coffee, and somebody else was breathing, but not really doing much more than that.

My urgent need to fart discreetly indicated that it was my turn, although God knows I most probably been sounding like a surfacing whale most of the night. When people extol the joys of partnership, they don’t mention snoring, farting and the shower plughole being clogged with redundant pubic hair.

I had had no intention of working that day, and as I hadn’t got to bed until some tiny hour I was not about to rush at my first free morning for several weeks. As is often the way, I had half awoken to hear my 'phone ringing, but common sense, aching bones and a warm body in the bed had kept me from answering even the subsequent shrill and ever increasingly hysterical tones of my mobile. After all nothing can ever be that urgent, and even when things might be, there is always the answering machine. After several attempts, however, it became apparent that someone really was trying to get hold of me, and that someone knew me well enough not to give up after the first few goes. Secure in the knowledge that I would never find that comfortable position again; I hauled my weary body out from under the duvet and stumbled into the living room.

Of course, now that I had opted to answer it, the wretched thing had stopped ringing, which posed the awkward question, which wobbly pile of junk had I put it down on top of last night? When I eventually did find it I was no better off, as the number was withheld and my mystery caller had left no message. Grumbling and swearing gently under my breath, I went back to bed.

Naturally enough, as soon as I had got comfortable and drifted back into semi-consciousness, the mariachi band that is my mobile started up again. This time I was distinctly not happy, I stomped into the front room and snatched up my innocent phone;

Yes, what's so urgent that you need to get me out of bed?

And a very good afternoon to you too said my persecutor cheerily.

Oh, hi Jim, not still in work are you?

Well, since you ask, yes, and by a curious coincidence that was why I was calling. I've got a new little show I think you might be interested in, if you’re up for it.

I had known Jim for years; a true production manager, he was devious, manipulative and had employed me for some of the worst pieces of theatre that have ever defiled an English stage. Small, wiry and hyperactive, he had succeeded in giving up smoking only to exchange that bad habit for a fresh addiction, and he was never to be found without some form of cheesy snack about his person. I hadn’t worked with Jim for a couple of years, although I was very fond of him, and happy to go for a drink, but after my last experience I had vowed that I wouldn’t do another musical for him ever again.

In fairness, I have to say that at this point even the shudders of horror that brought back seemed preferable to yet another week spent in the company of another brain-dead and self–important industrialist in an expensive suit.

Oh yes, it’s not another 'Waiter!!!' is it? I referred to that disastrously terrible musical on which I had worked with Jim. Set entirely in the kitchens of a manic and egomaniac celebrity chef, it had demanded that the performers create entire gourmet meals each evening. The maguffin, such as it was, was that the chef was murdering anybody presumptuous enough to criticise his food, and serving them up to the next set of customers. Conceived as the bastard child of ‘Silence of the Lambs’ and ‘Ready Steady Cook’ any sane person could see it was doomed to failure right from the start.

The cost and quality of the cooking ingredients needed had progressively degenerated as it meandered towards its inevitable closure, stage managers were often to be found haunting the reductions cabinet in the local supermarket in an effort to find something for the actors, quite literally, to get their teeth into. The management had done a deal with the stall holders at the local street market, and most evenings a load of over-ripe vegetables and fruit would be dumped unceremoniously at the stage door. The show collapsed in a stinking miasma of rotting food some two months after it had opened. The whole sad story was memorable mostly for the vituperative quality of the reviews: 'Send it back, the ideas aren't even half baked' was my personal favourite, with 'stale, flabby and overcooked - and that's just the performances!' coming in a close second. Sometimes journalists can be cruelly accurate, sensing the dying spasms of creativity before anybody else does, and moving in for the kill like a pack of rats. In this case, however, they were entirely justified; to describe the show as a turkey was being unfair to poultry.

Nothing will ever be quite like 'Waiter!!!’ shuddered Jim, There are still times when I wake up sweating and raving about hollandaise sauce and bain-maries, it's still playing merry hell with my sex-life. I promise you this new piece is quite different, though, and it even has some of our fellow sufferers from ‘Waiter!!!’, so if you join us you won't be on your own. There’s a few from the cast you’ll know, Karl, the dance captain for example, and weren’t you particularly pally with Freddie, the ASM* who got pregnant?

Yeah I was, there was a point when I thought I was onto something there, but then she went off and got herself impregnated by that Italian commis chef.

That's the girl, she's going to be the DSM** on the new show, and of course she now has a lovely little daughter, and anyway I really don’t think you were ever on for anything there.

[*Assistant Stage Manager]

[**Deputy Stage Manager]

I know that now, but I didn’t find out about her and Edie until a bit later.

You never stood a chance there, and you know it. I could imagine Jim’s expression, so I hastily changed the subject.

I know, I know, you don’t need to rub it in. I never felt I could ask at the time, but what was Edie’s reaction when she discovered that Freddie was up the duff? It's not like they were ever the most stable of couples.

I heard that once Edie got past feeling outraged and betrayed, she was absolutely thrilled. She's not seen around as much any more, as she seems to have taken to parenthood in a big way. Even so, she’s sure to be popping in with the kid from time to time. You're bound to see her if you decide to join us on this one.

Hang on, I interjected feebly, join what, and join who? You haven't yet told me what you are calling me about, although it sounds ghastly enough already.

Oh yeah, silly me! I've been getting together the crew to do the try out for a new musical. We're nicely out of the way in a big old barn of a theatre in East London, all we have to do is throw the set in, sling up a few lanterns and a bit of a sound system, let the turns* loose for a few days and bingo, off to the West End for a ten year run. (All Production Managers talk like this, nothing is ever a problem, even the most grisly tasks are generally dismissed in a couple of words).

[*generic: performer]

Over-optimism has always been your curse, Jim, and you know it. Am I to be told who the creator of this instant masterwork is? Or am I not to know?

In strictest confidence and I mean it, because this has to be a guaranteed banker, and we've all been sworn to secrecy until after the press-launch, this is to be the first Kale/Whibble musical for ten years. They've finally kissed and made up, and agreed to work together again.

I suppose the fact that neither of them has had much of a hit since they fell out might have concentrated their minds? I said sarcastically, I've never had much time for either of them, although I must confess that I did feel a momentary twinge of sympathy for Sir Peter when he was sued for plagiarism by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

That’s not something you should ever mention if you take this gig on, said Jim nervously, losing that case did not go down very well with Sir Peter, and given his tendency to hurl the teddy bear out of his pram at the slightest upset, I would appreciate it if you would try to keep shtum.

I think it highly unlikely that he would be canvassing my opinion on anything, but you know I can keep my gob shut. It's Philip Kale I feel sorry for; I thought he had developed principles? Didn’t he do that show about street kids?

That’s right, but between you and me ‘Waifs and Urchins’ died at the box office, I guess there’s not that much of a market for hollow cheeked, druggy, rent-boy musicals. Let’s not forget that he has a big house on the river at Marlowe, and a predilection for Bolivian marching powder, so the prospect of a big fat cheque and the thought of the monthly royalties might have enabled him to swallow his pride a little.

Will we be getting the Yes/No boys? I asked, already knowing the answer.

If you are referring to Sir Peter's personal assistants, then yes, of course, goes without saying. I doubt that they will ever have much to do with a lowly minion like you though, He sniped.

The Yes/No boys were Sir Peter's praetorian guard, an élite force of blank-eyed, expensively suited and perfumed ex-public schoolboys who surrounded the artistic powerhouse, saying Yes to all his suggestions, and No to everything else on principle. They had actively impeded many productions, not through malice, but simply because they understood absolutely nothing about the profession in which they were engaged.

They were there, in many cases, because their parents had put money into the show, and part of the price of that support had been to find some role for the treasured but fundamentally useless offspring. They occupied a similar position to that of the hordes of pretty but dumb upper-middle class girls found answering the phones in many of our national opera companies.

You haven't actually told me what the show is, I added, before I started getting actively rude, if he's still strolling down that black brick road attempting the rehabilitation of old fascists, then I think I might attempt to be elsewhere.

No, you're OK. I think he learned his lesson when 'Franco, the musical' bombed over here. No, this time he has decided to go back to his roots and do a big all-singing, all dancing, sure fire, American nostalgia number. Lots of big dance numbers and plenty of chorus stuff, you know; razzle dazzle 'em, and all that jazz.

I beg your pardon? I was startled into a reaction, Roots, what roots? As far as I know he comes from deepest darkest Godalming. If you had told me he was doing a musical about three-day eventing it might have made more sense, but what did America ever do in Surrey, beyond rushing around impregnating the locals during the war? I can’t think of any of his shows that could be considered to be an American musical, chunks of the Bible, dubious Hispanic politics and recycled stiff upper lip war movies have all been given the treatment, but so far he has been careful to avoid any comparison with the competition.

You're right, agreed Jim, but I think he sees this as his big comeback and he wants to take the States on at their own game.

But he's as English as a park full of smelly old drunks, I protested.

I know, but he seems to be full of confidence.

That's never been in doubt, I said sardonically, So, is there a story? Or perhaps even a name? I was already tiring of this game.

There is a name, although I don't think the book is quite finished yet.

Is it started? I interrupted. (It is not unusual for the Book, or the spoken text, to be completed on the fly as rehearsals progress).

Snippy! From your point of view everything should be fine, Rupert Sonnet is to light, and has already started to produce a plan, Nigel Love is the set-designer and is reported to be well under way, and of course, the major artistic coup, Jeremiah Battenberg III is to direct.

I have to admit I was surprised by the production line-up, Rupert Sonnet was one of the new generation of Oxbridge-educated lighting designers, and had gone straight from university into designing large scale extremist opera productions, along the way he had started picking up lots of awards for his very minimalist and stark designs. Make your design ugly and uncompromising enough, and no one will ever dare to criticise you to your face, more so even than politics, the theatre industry depends on the concept of the emperor’s new clothes, and sheer brass neck will take you all the way.

Nigel Love I knew of old, keep him surrounded by pretty young assistants and eventually he would produce something; usually wildly impractical, and usually very expensive. Fortunately for him, spending vast amounts on silly ideas goes with the territory on a big musical. Jim would have his work cut out trying to rein in the wilder notions before they became indispensable.

Jeremiah Battenberg, however, was a real coup, a patrician American from a famous theatrical family (his uncle was Richard Battenberg, who had had more hits on the great white way than anyone else of his generation), his own pedigree, whilst not as starry, was still very impressive, with few turkeys to be seen. Unless you considered 'Lucky!!' a musical reworking of 'Waiting for Godot' to have been a dud, which personally I do not.

So what is this masterpiece to be called? I said, trying not to sound at all interested.

The working title is 'Slaughter on Seventh Avenue'; it’s taken from an old movie apparently. They have been talking about calling it ‘Slaughter!!!’ not such a great idea in my opinion.

Nor mine, I concurred, just how many exclamation points would they be using for that?

Only three.

Not a good sign, the number of exclamation marks used in a title is usually an inverse indicator of how amount of entertainment is on offer. So let's hope that idea’s knocked on the head fairly swiftly. To business then, what do you want me to do, when and how much?

I was hoping that you would come in as production electrician, hold Rupert's hand, and generally keep an eye on that side of things for me, as you do. The crew at the theatre are usually pretty good, most of them will work really hard, and they are capable of following instructions. It's really only the in-house stage manager that you need to watch out for; he's a lazy bugger, and winds people up for fun, that’s likely to be my problem, however. Just you watch out for him though, he’s the dope dealer and supplies the artistic director and most of the crew, his position is unimpeachable.

This is becoming so much clearer to me, the theatre we are discussing here, it wouldn’t happen to be the Leyton Hippodrome by any chance? I asked.

Yes it is, but how on earth did you know? Nobody else has even heard of it.

I've done their Panto three years running, beautiful building, shame about the management, I said, unable to avoid sounding smug, I don't think that you will find that it has much in the way of facilities, from what I remember, even electricity was a bit of an afterthought when it was built. Big Tom can be a handful, but only if you expect him to do any work, or don’t fancy paying him lots of overtime.

We're not after much, walls, roof and a floor will suffice, said Jim equally smugly, and I think there are ways of dealing with big Tom.

Well, they certainly have all those facilities, although the roof leaks like buggery, and the stage is a bit on the wobbly side.

No problem, we'll be boarding out the stage floor as soon as you and the set boys finish with it, and it is set to be a long hot summer. Now, to business, we need you on board as soon as possible-if you can make it, there's a meeting at the Hippodrome tomorrow for all the production staff, and we can discuss terms and conditions then. I'm going to have to go, I've another call waiting, look, I'll see you tomorrow, ten o'clock at the Hippo, bye...

With that characteristically abrupt farewell, Jim hung up, I hadn't actually said yes or no, and in my business silence is commonly taken as agreement. I really couldn't think of any compelling reason not to