Alice Rackham: Obsession, Death and a British Film Star: Screen Siren Noir, #3

By F.R. Jameson

Theirs is an affair destined to end in murder! 

Thomas had never met a woman like Alice Rackham. A film-star: sophisticated and uninhibited. Not only is their passion intense, but she could help this impoverished young actor with his own career. Surely it doesn't really matter that she has danger written all over her…

As he isn't the only one smitten with Alice: her ex-lover skulks ceaselessly outside her home and keeps a former policeman on retainer. A giant of a man who would relish making both their lives torture.

With Thomas rattled, Alice suggests a relaxing trip to an English country house. But trouble isn't just going to follow them out there, it's about to turn deadly.

Can Thomas save Alice from her past? Or will it destroy them both?

Alice Rackham: Obsession, Death and a British Film Star is a must-read for all fans of hard-boiled crime and film noir. If you love the thrillers of Megan Abbott, Guy Bolton and James Ellroy, then you will adore Alice Rackham!

The third in F.R. Jameson's Screen Siren Noir series. 

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• Language: English
• Publisher: F.R. Jameson
• Release date: Sep 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393534570

F.R. Jameson

F.R. Jameson was born in Wales, but now lives with his wife and daughter in London. He writes both horror and thrillers. The thrillers are mostly of the supernatural variety, but are sometimes historical, set around the British film industry. You can find him on Facebook, and follow him on Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest: @frjameson.

Book preview

Chapter One

After the bodies were discovered, and the police and press descended, the smug bastard gave a heartbroken interview to The Daily Mail. He claimed that he couldn’t believe what had happened, that the sheer dreadfulness of it had utterly blindsided him. Openly weeping, so the story said, he could offer no clue as to what on earth had transpired.

In short, he really laid on the melodrama. He used every emotional weapon in his armoury.

The piece was sympathetic to the point of snivelling. To be fair though, it certainly captured the man’s way of speaking. But between the lines – so subtle that maybe not even the reporter fully noticed – there was the sense that as he talked about needing time and space to contemplate, he was loving being part of it. As if what had happened was a big theatrical production staged for his benefit.

A big production he could use to wipe away the other scandals which had haunted his life these last few years.

There was one quote about how the tragedy of true love is that it cannot last in reality. At one point he apparently used the phrase the dark veil of hopeless yearning. It was thick gravy he offered them. But The Mail gobbled it up hungrily and put the exclusive on their front page. All the other papers dutifully reported it and quoted the bastard at length too. Nobody had the bad manners to point out what he was actually doing. No, they swallowed it all and acted as if he were as full of grief and sorrow as he claimed he was.

Surely, though, there must have been somebody who saw through him and realised what he was up to. After all, despite them prefixing his name with the words ‘beloved actor’, his last three films had been total flops. And everyone knew his presence didn’t sell out a theatre as comprehensively as it had once done – even in the provinces.

There must have been some journalists who spotted that he was using what happened to fuel a grand comeback, exploiting this terrible tragedy to his own ends. Surely somebody must have seen that. But if they did, right then they didn’t care.

What happened allowed them to rehash the story of the earlier scandal in his life – photos of the girl included. But more importantly it allowed him to retell the story of that earlier scandal and to reframe it as something that had happened to him, rather than something he was party to. As such, it gave the press two damn good stories. A pair of juicy yarns for the price of one. And in the end it was his version which gave them the most mileage. So, of course they were going to bloody print it.

As long as the public kept buying the papers, they’d let him wash off the blood in the spotlight and then slap him on the back merrily as he strolled away.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that no one really cared about me. After all, what happened to me was a curious footnote to the story. I wasn’t a name, I wasn’t anyone well known. I was basically a nobody.

But in truth, I was the only decent person there – and no one cared.

Instead they just focused on that bastard. A man who was not only going to get away with it all, he was going to thrive.

And he was going to carry her with him.

Even as her heart broke, she was still going to be with him.

Chapter Two

The first time I met Alice Rackham, I was covered in blood and had just pretended to be dead for a quarter of an hour. Obviously it wasn’t real blood. Instead it was a mix of food colouring and corn syrup, but it looked fantastically viscous under the stage lights.

It was spring 1958 and it was my first meaty role in my first professional London production. The theatre was based in Islington, rather than the West End, but it still counted.

Bob Shaw was the star, playing a young boxer on the make, and I was both Opponent Number One and Opponent Number Four. Opponent Number One had lines! A long soliloquy about the hunger of poverty that had driven the character into the ring, and which – even if I do say so myself – I made the most of. But, even though the role was pretty much silent, Opponent Number Four was the more dramatic part. He was the final fighter, the one Bob Shaw’s character inadvertently beats to death in the ring. It was where the fake blood came in. I arrived on stage with my mouth full of capsules. Then I had to lean back on the ropes and bite down hard and let the blood flow over me. Sinking to the floor as Bob gave his own grand final speech about the dreadfulness of the path he’d chosen. It was all reacting on my part, but Bob gave me a lot to work with, and I felt that at the end of each performance we both shared the ovation.

My landlady hated the blood. There was no way I could get all of it off at the end of a night’s performance, working over a small backstage sink with only a flannel, and because there was no hot water at my digs after 9pm, I had to sleep in it and it stained the sheets. As such I got a lot of dirty looks and there was a reprimand or two. But my landlady was a widow who was sweet on me, so there were no threats to throw me out. As long as I gave her attention and made her feel special once in a while, she’d probably have let me go to bed covered in horse manure.

I wore no more than boxers’ long shorts the whole performance – scarlet for Opponent Number One and navy for Opponent Number Four. But when Alice Rackham appeared at the dressing room door that evening, I was wearing just my underpants. There was still fake blood on my chest – it had somehow contrived to get under my arms – and I was doing my best to wipe it away while knowing it was a losing battle. I don’t think I heard her, but through some vague sixth sense, I was suddenly conscious that there was someone with me. Staring at me. I glanced up and there she was – dark-haired and beautiful – leaning on the door frame, a big grin on her face.

Her smile got wider at my surprise and shock, a light of laughter in her eyes. Hullo there, she said. Very sorry to disturb you, but I’m Alice.

Of course I knew who she was. Watching her play Portia in The Merchant of Venice was my first ever theatrical experience. The one which changed my life.

I lowered the towel to cover my nether regions. Hi. I’m Thomas.

I know.

For a few moments we regarded each other: her in the doorway; me at the centre of the cramped, grey dressing room.

In the distance I could hear the noise of the auditorium emptying, as well as the retreating backstage footsteps of other cast members. I was the only one covered in blood each performance, so it always took me the longest to get myself even vaguely presentable. But right then, as we stared at each other, it felt like it was only the two of us in the whole cavernous building.

Alice Rackham must have been in her thirties, but she still retained a marvellously voluptuous figure – busty with a slim waist and shapely legs. Her face was round with a dimpled chin and incredible green catlike eyes. On film, her figure and face seemed more rounded – plump, almost – and that’s probably why she’d ended up playing more maternal roles in recent times. Up close, however, it was impossible to disguise how much sex appeal she had. Those eyes alone seemed to shine with the promise of naughtiness.

I stared at her with wonderment, and then with self-consciousness as I realised she was appraising my torso and muscles in exactly the same way I was eyeing up her.

Like some schoolboy, I found myself dropping my gaze down and away, and felt the gentle burn of a blush on my cheeks.

She laughed at my discomfort. A laugh which was deliciously cheeky.

Taking a step forward, she clutched her hands behind her back. That evening she wore a lilac dress which drew a V just above her chest and then flared out to her knees. Her brunette curls were piled up high on her head and she wore small diamond earrings which sparkled even under the dull naked lightbulb of the dressing room. The ensemble didn’t draw attention to her in an ostentatious way – it didn’t scream out that she was a great theatre star, or a film actress, or a celebrity – but once you noticed her, the impression she made was unforgettable.

I just wanted to come back and tell you how much I enjoyed the play, and how good I thought you were in it.

Thank you, I said. Bob’s the star, though. You should maybe be praising him.

She sighed. Yes, but I’ve met Bob Shaw before and he’s right up his own arsehole already, so I don’t want to waste any kind words in his direction.

I laughed and she laughed with me. There was no way I was going to argue with her assessment, though I did glance a little nervously over her shoulder. He, of course, had his own dressing room and it was just across the corridor from the one the rest of us shared.

Don’t worry, she said, grinning. Our Bob is already in the bar, schmoozing away. Which is frankly – she took another step, her arms still coquettishly behind her, her eyes brimming with mischief – where you should be.

Alice Rackham was stood right in front of me now, and she was practically purring. She must have seen how quickly I was breathing, just as I caught the rise and fall of her cleavage.

Again we fell into an awkward silence. She peered up at me – she was a good head smaller than me, only just reaching my shoulders.

So... She drew the word out with a long breath and raised her left eyebrow. Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening? I well remember what it’s like to be a young actor full of energy and youthful exuberance. The adrenaline flowing from a performance. The joys of life not really starting until half past ten at night. Just as the rest of the world are tucking themselves in with a mug of cocoa and an Agatha Christie, you’re raring to go on some adventure. So, do you have anywhere you need to be tonight? Anything already planned?

No. I shook my head. I’m all yours.

There was a chuckle in her throat. Her purr getting louder. Slowly, carefully she raised her right hand to my chest. Then she gently ran her index finger down across my pectorals and stomach muscles, drawing a smooth white line amidst the fake blood.

Good. That’s the way it should be. Then with a wink she put her finger to her lips and wrapped her tongue around it, licking the blood clean off. I’ll see you in the bar in ten minutes. Any later and I’ll make you buy your own drinks.

Then she turned and was gone with a skip and the briefest of smiles back over her shoulder.

I took a deep sigh and started to rapidly clean myself down. Whatever happened that night, I knew – without a sliver of doubt – that I was already hers.

Quite frankly, to do with as she liked.

Chapter Three

She’s dangerous, don’t you know that? hissed Zachary.

The drinks flowed freely that night. And even though I spent nearly all of it at Alice’s side, there were trips to the bar and of course to the lavatory – opportunities when friends tried to hide their jealousy in whispered warnings.

Dangerous? My eyebrow rose, unable to credit it.

He nodded. And no better than she should be. She is exactly the kind of woman that young boys’ mothers warn them about. Let me tell you that!

Zachary was a homosexual, though, and had never been coy about his desire to get me into bed. We’d flirted a few times, but I’d made it clear that things weren’t going to go any further. That didn’t stop him, though. I doubted if a smack in the nose would have put him off for that long.

Later I had: Isn’t she old enough to be your damn mother?

That was from Julia, the one actress in the play. In the course of the production, she’d gone from being overexcited at the prospect of kissing Bob Shaw, to complaining about the stench of whisky and cheap tobacco which always came with it. We’d been in Rep together and had had our own dalliance, one which hadn’t lasted as we were both too flighty by nature. For me, there were a lot of good-looking actresses about; while her dream was to hook up with an impresario who’d create roles for her. Struggling young actors were fine once in a while, but what she really liked was rich old men. I hadn’t put her down as the jealous type when it came to me, but I guess it was the fact that Alice was far more successful than her which really irked her.

It was nine minutes after Alice had left my dressing room that I ran up the stairs and burst in through the double doors to the theatre bar. She’d come with friends that evening: two actresses, less successful, named Sally and Bernadette. Neither of whom I ever met again. The three of them were stood only three feet away from the door, a glamorous welcoming committee. Well, all the glamour actually came from Alice; the other two were dowdy in comparison. She peered up the instant I entered, and I knew that she’d been keeping an eye on her watch. With a wide grin on her face, she beckoned me forward, and when I got there she slipped a proprietary arm around my waist. It was only natural that I slipped my arm over her shoulders.

We’d known each other less than a quarter of an hour, but we were already stood as a couple.

Calling to old Warren the barman, she ordered me a rum and Coca-Cola. She didn’t ask me what I wanted, didn’t even enquire whether I liked rum and Coca-Cola (I’d never actually tried it before that evening). It’s just what she wanted to see me drink, and since she was paying, who was I to argue?

You look like Superman, you know that? she observed at our first toast.

As I always did, I pretended to blush.

It was a remark I heard a lot, a comparison which had been made many times. I was tall and muscular, with jet black hair and a square jaw. Mine was a face of a hero, and in my career I intended to exploit that fact. Alice, even though she didn’t know it, did say it the right way. I always preferred it when people said I looked like the character, Superman, rather than that George Reeves bloke who played him. Reeves looked more than a bit tubby to me. I was in much better shape than him.

Her arm squeezed tighter around my waist. My own personal Superman! Maybe I’ll be the damsel in distress to be rescued one day. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I don’t have to worry about anything. There’s no call at the studio for me to get up for tomorrow, so I’m in the mood to get drunk. Properly plastered and legless. What do you think?

Sounds like fun. We clinked our glasses together in another toast.

Good, she said. Now, come on then – a man of few words is lovely to look at, but really I need more than that if we’re going to have a beautiful friendship. Don’t be shy. Tell me about yourself!

There really wasn’t that much to tell, but over rum and Coca-Cola and cigarettes, I told her my life story.

I was born in Deptford, but the most vivid memories of my childhood were of being evacuated down to Devon during the war. It was so colourful down there, the air was so