Moonland

By Hank Belbin

When Julian moved to the city with dreams of being a famous actor, he had no idea what he was getting into.

Behind the glitzy facade of well-paying jobs and nightclubs, there is a whole other world of addiction and isolation. All the actors are fake and no one is who they seem. After landing the biggest role of his career, things only get worse when he becomes involved with drugs and people begin to disappear. London is a place of many layers. Some get lost in those layers.

Moonland is the brutal and poignant coming of age story of a lost young man, confronting drug abuse and mortality head on in an unflinching depiction of modern life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hank Belbin
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999313418

Book preview

IT’S LATE APRIL and I’m standing on the baking tarmac outside the theatre by Leicester Square, hungover, smoking, looking up at the posters of theatre shows coming out soon, and all that goes through my mind is this one sentence: Some people just get stuck and never leave here. That’s all. The tarmac of the pavement is sticky and the metal lampposts look like they’re bending in the heat. I think I heard on the radio earlier that the heatwave is being caused by hot air from Spain being blown north by the winds. But, for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about that one sentence.

I just finished auditioning for a play that’s going to be touring Paris and London. About an hour ago, me and this other actor were sitting in the hallway outside the audition room. We didn’t say anything to each other for a long time. I eventually asked him where he was from and where he trained.

What’s your name? he asked, ignoring my question.

… Julian.

That’s a good name. You’ll get loads of work with a name like that … I’ve been doing this for thirty years now. Trying to make it … he said vacantly.

Yeah?

Yes. I moved here when I was twenty-one. Most people never make it, you know? You probably won’t. But they don’t give up, because they think that some day they will.

Do you reckon you will?

They just keep on hoping to get famous; and they give up on everything else instead. Some people just get stuck and never leave here …

A WEEK LATER, I get back from Sophie’s party in Camden and my mind is restless and I’m still thinking about that sentence. I really didn’t want to go to Sophie’s party because I knew it would be full of drugs. But I promised her that I would, and apparently a casting director was meant to be coming to it also.

It wasn’t a very good party. Everyone just stood around in huddles and didn’t talk to anyone outside of their own groups. They all looked bored and indifferent. Some were doing coke, others were just drinking Prosecco and talking about auditions they had done recently. Some wasted blonde actress was dancing around the room to Justin Bieber, Where Are Ü Now, having lines of coke and screaming the chorus to no one in particular. She was pretty, but was grinning wryly and faking being turned on when this guy who recently got a part in a period drama started grinding against her. I watched them both, and then decided I needed to leave, alone, because I started to feel sick or like maybe I’d faint. She reminded me too much of another wasted blonde girl, one I had tried to help. After that night last spring, I swore I’d never touch anything like that again.

I left and came back here at around 3 a.m. I have an audition in the morning that I really want to get, but my mind is restless and I just can’t fall asleep now. Maybe it’s because of the girl at the party, maybe not. Maybe it’s because some people get stuck and never leave here. I lie here in my bedroom, on my sheets. Four white walls and a wood floor. Nothing else. I usually take painkillers when I can’t sleep, but I don’t have any here. I end up staring vacantly at the ceiling for a long time until I close my eyes.

WHEN I WAKE UP EARLY, the sun is crawling up in the background and the pale white glow filters through the cheap venetian blinds in my room. My mouth is dry. I thumb between the slats and look out at the edges of the industrial estate and the concrete buildings and barbed wire fences in the middle distance. I leave and head for Oxford Street, hoping I don’t have bags under my eyes for the audition.

The hidden entrance to the building where I have to audition is just down from the underground station. I come to the tinted glass of the entrance and cross over into the air-conditioned lobby. Polished steel and glass everywhere. The African-looking security guard at the entrance half stares at everyone who comes in, eyeing them suspiciously. But he looks at them with glazed-over, almost red eyes, like he’s not really looking at anything. I go up to the reception and sign in. Then I go and sit down, next to some other actor who looks a lot like me. All of the actors here kind of do. The hallway is silent and covered in pictures of Marlon Brando and Marilyn Monroe.

Anyone know what this is for? an actor asks eventually.

After a silence: Some commercial about a betting site? Or a music video, I think, someone else says.

Cool.

Yeah. I don’t even want to do this audition though, he says without looking at anyone. No one replies. I’ve got an audition with Zero Casting for an HBO show later, the actor – who looks a lot like me – then says while smoothing back his slick hair, caressing it, even though it’s not out of place.

Cool, one of them says again.

Yep.

A blonde woman comes out into the hallway, holding a clipboard.

Julian?

I stand up and try to smile as I go in with her. There’s a single chair set up in the middle of the empty room with a camera pointed directly at it. The woman points me to the chair and the cameraman starts adjusting the lens. She asks me to say my name, height, and agent details to the camera.

AFTER THE AUDITION, I take the underground to Tottenham Hale, back to the house. I pull myself up the stairs from the platforms and into the streets of Tottenham, where I’ve been living for the past four years, then throw up in a bin, then continue walking. Litter layers the streets and a homeless guy asks me for change but I pretend not to hear him and walk faster, cutting through the retail park near my street.

There’s a dirty-looking family in the car park. The mum is pushing shopping into the boot of an old car. Her kid is screaming and shouting behind her and the dad just sits in the driver’s seat and smokes. He stares across the car park with empty grey eyes, like he’s watching something, but I don’t think he is. The kid starts banging his little hand against the side of the car and crying, demanding something.

Kyle rings me and asks me if I’m coming to a rave party in Brixton on Saturday. My stomach tightens and I tell him I can’t.

Why not? Kyle says.

Is there gonna be coke there? I say while walking faster.

Probably.

… I can’t.

But you went to Sophie’s last night.

That’s different.

How?

There weren’t any drugs at that one, I lie.

What? What the fuck does that mean?

Look, I’m trying to stay away from that stuff. I wanna be an actor, I say after a long pause.

Just come, it’s good for you, Kyle says, and tries laughing.

Did you not hear me?

What did you say?

Never mind, I say, and hang up, then smoke a cigarette before I get to the house, trying to remember that I must stay away from that stuff so I don’t end up like I was last spring; so I don’t end up the same as that blonde girl.

THE HALLWAY SMELLS OF WEED. Chris is sprawled across the sofa in our kitchen, wearing ripped tracksuit pants and a black beanie hat indoors for some reason. The TV is against the back wall with windows that look out into the night and the amber glow of the tower blocks one street over. He’s playing Grand Theft Auto V on the PS4. The kitchen light flickers from the dull cream ceiling.

Sup fucker, Chris says without turning to look at me.

The kitchen smells even more of weed and I don’t bother commenting on it. I don’t seem to care anymore.

All right, mate, what you doing? I ask over my shoulder as I throw my keys onto the counter.

Ah, just shooting people, he says slowly.

You playing the campaign?

Fuck no: online, my friend. I’ve been chasing this other player with a helicopter for like the last half hour. I think he’s like ten years old … What you doing tonight? he asks after a couple seconds.

Killing myself probably, I joke.

Chris laughs. You’re like twenty-one. Why are you so depressing all the time?

Nah, I’m joking. I’m fine. My agent said that I need to email some casting directors tonight. So I guess I’ll do that.

The fuck are casting directors?

People who audition you for parts in films; they’re like the middle men.

Oh, like an estate agent? Chris asks, and I know he doesn’t understand.

Yeah, sure.

Can they get me a job as a model? he asks, lazily.

Maybe.

I grab a half-empty bottle of whiskey from my cupboard, pour a glass, down it, pour another one.

Mate, I’m so fucking high right now.

I can tell, I say back while sitting on the sofa. The sofa is one of those corner sofas and has cigarette burns in the upholstery.

We got a new housemate by the way, Chris says.

What? When?

Today, man.

Who?

I don’t know, some girl called Daisy, Chris says.

That was quick. I didn’t know anything about that.

We had a viewing last week when you were working. Guess she was the one who took it. She moved in this morning. She’s across from you now.

What does she do?

Fuck knows, I think she said an artist or something. Yeah. She went to some art university in west London and paints – I don’t know, Chris says. She’s a bit weird though.

How?

I don’t know, just weird, you know?

… Yeah, I say, agreeing with whatever he means.

Chris starts talking about how he wants to buy a house in London, or somewhere near London anyway, he says, blinking slowly, rolling up another joint.

I wanna leave my job though. They’re treating me like shit. They don’t pay me enough for what I do. I want to be a model. You want some? he says after taking a couple of shallow drags of the joint.

Nah.

I read in the Metro paper this morning that some banker killed himself by jumping off the top floor of his stockbroker’s firm in Canary Wharf because he worked too many hours. No eulogies were spoken at his funeral. He was twenty-seven. Then the newspaper went on to talk about how mortgages are too high in London, just too high. Chris starts talking about wanting to be an underwear model and I find it really hard to pay attention to what he’s saying.

I stare at the TV, but almost past it, not really focusing on anything.

I REMEMBER MY FIRST NIGHT HERE. I didn’t have my car back then. My dad drove me up here. Four years ago now. There was no one at the rented house when I moved in, they were all out. I hadn’t met any of them yet. My room was white and completely empty. Just the double bed and the empty wardrobe in the corner. The faint smell of detergent on everything. Freshly cleaned, almost sterile room. The city was louder than I expected and sirens would echo through the streets, building into a crescendo as they passed the house. Flashing lights of the planes above. It was winter when I came here, raining outside. An amber glare from the streetlights flooded the roads. My first night I unpacked and stood by the opened window, smoking, breathing in the smell of the city. My parents were worried about me moving here. They thought I was too young to live in the city, but I pleaded with them for months. I talked about being actor every time I spoke to them, saying that I was determined to try. They eventually agreed to bring me here. When he dropped me off and left to drive back to Bournemouth, my dad said, Good luck. I hope it goes well. He gave me a hug and walked away slowly, looking back at me once or twice.

I smiled and said, Next time you see me I’ll be on TV.

Four years ago now.

A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER and it’s time to audition for the play again. My agent rang me up and said that they were pleased with what they saw and I have to audition again. She told me that if I get this part and it goes well then I’m almost guaranteed to get a part in a film next year. I walk towards Embankment. People pass me by and I don’t move out the way for some of them. The rain falls heavily and I carry on walking to the nearest bar from Embankment station. The streets are glowing from all the theatres. I saw on TV that some Japanese tourists have spent their life savings to come to London and stay in some overpriced hotel off Green Park just to see Buckingham Palace. The audition is going to be held just down the road from Embankment. It’s for the leading role in one of Shakespeare’s plays and is set to tour London and Paris and my agent wants me to audition because the lead role pays good commission, but I really want to play the part anyway, I have done for years. It’s one of the biggest roles I’ve ever auditioned for and I’ve been practising the monologues for months now.

I walk into the bar, in the back alley behind a theatre, some new trendy bar with tiled pillars that make it look like a sauna. The booths are big and leather-bound in a deep-brown skin. Tinged-blue lights run down the exposed brick walls.

The bartender looks withered, wearing a rolled-up white shirt and a black pinstripe waistcoat. The city years accentuate his wrinkles and he looks like he should be about thirty but the fumes have made him look near-on fifty. I get a whiskey and the bartender doesn’t say anything the whole time I’m standing around at the bar. Everyone else but the bartender is talking all around me and I feel nauseous. I’m sharing the bar with a whole congress of London bankers, stockbrokers, lawyers. They all have tailored suits and expensive watches. I don’t see any faces though; they all look the same to me. I close my eyes and for some reason a stark image of fat pigs at feeding time enters my brain. The pigs are overweight and savage, all crowding around the carcass of another pig and eating it. They laugh and fight and roll around in the dead pig’s blood. I try to push the image out of my head and look back at the bartender’s withered face. For a moment I think he saw the gory images too. Maybe he did, and maybe he just doesn’t care anymore.

He still hasn’t said anything and I get freaked out and finish my drink quickly, then leave and walk down the street in the rain. Zoë texts me and asks if I’m coming to her birthday. I text back saying yeah, even though I don’t really want to because she’ll definitely want to go somewhere really expensive.

THE FOYER TO THE AUDITION is in some Victorian building hiding behind another theatre. I sign in at the security desk and walk down the empty hallway. At the end of it is a seating area and there are some other actors there already sitting down. There’s an empty seat in between them. I walk towards it and try to make eye contact with the actors. They all look away. I can’t see the older actor from the other week here and I start to wonder if he didn’t get the part or if he was ever there.

No one says anything for a long time. I try to ignore it and focus on rehearsing my cues and lines, over and over in my brain. Then I catch the eyes of another guy staring at me. How’s it going, man? I announce after a short silence.

... Yeah, not bad, you?

Yeah, good.

Yeah ... he says.

I look up at the ceiling, pretending to admire the wooden frame but really I’m avoiding eye contact. It feels like he’s judging me somehow.

So what part you going for then?

The lead, I say.

Yeah, I just got a part in a music video next week. You done any other acting?

Bits and pieces, you know?

Brad, he says as he darts his hand out to shake.

Uh, Julian. Nice to meet you.

Who’s your agent?

… C.A.G. You?

U.L.K. You know how much commission they’re getting for this?

Fifteen per cent, isn’t it?

Pfft, no. My fucking agent is getting thirty! Thirty motherfucking per cent, Brad says, clenching his fist in fake anger.

Oh, that sucks.

You should check with yours too. It may be the same.

Yeah?

Yeah, it may be the same, Brad says sternly as he runs his fingers through his ginger hair and tousles it back into place. He bounces one knee out of habit and glides his eyes around the room, looking at the other actors. I think he’s eighteen. Definitely not older than twenty. He must be going for a different part than me. Maybe that’s what he wanted to know. The door to the room opens and a dark haired woman appears in the doorway.

Julian? she shouts above me, to the hallway. I don’t say anything and stand up and walk into the vast room behind the woman and notice that it’s completely empty apart from one big wooden table. All of a sudden I feel nervous. Six people are seated behind the table and they don’t say anything. In the middle of them sits the director of the play. He’s wearing a black suit and a black turtleneck.

I’m Jorge. I’m the director, he says.

Hi, Jorge. Nice to meet you. Hi, everyone.

The judges flank Jorge on either side of the desk and stare at me in silence, with piercing eyes. Jorge tells me to act out Scene One, Act Three and I start to read the lines. He then asks me to do another scene and I do. They keep me there for another ten minutes and ask about my previous credits and my height.

Well done. We’ll be in touch,