Stage Exit: The Island Connection, #15

By Graham Hamer

In the Isle of Man's Gaiety Theatre, Lenny Barlow is bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat in the men's toilets. But who's doing the killing? And why? Police officers Hannah Davis and Frankie MacEwen are left to investigate on their own as their detective inspector, Des Cartwright, slides deeper and deeper into an alcohol-fuelled haze. His alcohol consumption increases even more when he discovers that the victim was a visiting American film studio owner.

 

In the theatre, the actors are struggling with the script. It's a dramatization of Cordelia Armstrong's best-selling novel, 'The Death of Logic', but things are not going well. The situation turns critical when a brawl between the scriptwriter and the play's director breaks out during a live performance. A brawl that is witnessed by hundreds in the audience. A brawl that ends in another character's exit from the stage.

 

When the two police women discover their inspector in a drunken stupor on the floor of his home, they have to call for an ambulance to save his life. Now, they really are on their own. Yet, when Frankie and Hannah go to the wake of Frankie's grandmother, Hannah meets a strange lady with unusual talents. They will eventually ask for her help, but her clues seem as enigmatic as the lady herself. A day later, those clues lead the pair to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are risks being a police officer, and a face-to-face confrontation with the killer sees another death bringing the total to three.

 

A story of intrigue and hidden agendas. People are seldom who they seem to be. Scores have to be settled. Eventually, the two police women discover who the killer is. But is it going to cost one of them her life also? There' only one way for you to find out…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215409152

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Mac didn’t remember how he had come to hear of The Oracle. Chinese whispers maybe. It wasn’t like she advertised her services. But that dark evening in February, with the rain coming down in great ropes, and the horizon bruised and thunderous, he found himself in The Oracle’s cave. In truth, it was nothing more than a large wooden shed in her rear garden but Mac liked to imagine it as a dark cave and The Oracle as some sort of psychic soothsayer. Mac liked to let his imagination run wild at times. The only illumination was from a child’s night-light that cast faint, ghost-like shadows on the walls. Black curtains blanked out the single window. Not that The Oracle needed any sort of black-out in the middle of the countryside at this time on a winter evening. There was no heating and the room was cold. Mac shivered, huddling into his outer coat and pulling his soft gloves tighter on his hands.

The Oracle was a wizened old woman who lived alone in the nearby cottage. Old was subjective, since her face was mostly in shadow. Somewhere between menopause and last rites. Whatever her age, she seemed not to feel the cold. In Mac’s overactive imagination, she could easily have been a character out of King Solomon’s Mines - a book by Rider Haggard that had been adapted for film in the early 2000’s. In the story, an ancient hag named Gagool was the king’s chief adviser. And it was the dispensing of advice which had Mac seeking The Oracle’s counsel this evening. The shadows added an enigmatic level of mystery. Maybe that was intentional. She sat hunched on a grand chair like a throne. Mac’s seat was smaller - lower. She had already gained control as soon as he sat down. Mac could smell alcohol, but couldn’t pinpoint what type, or even if it emanated from her. Maybe it came from him - he enjoyed an odd drop of Scotch.

What is it you want to know? she asked in a quiet but croaky voice.

He spread his arms wide. Everything.

She laughed out loud. It was almost a cackle. Echoes of Gagool. Define everything.

He pondered for a moment. Tell me about religion. Start with that."

Religion - pah! While the pope continues to live in a gold-plated palace wearing fancy hats and golden briefs, doing nothing useful while less fortunate folks starve, I shall have no respect for the hypocrisies of religion. Religion makes you afraid of the things you don’t understand. You mustn’t be afraid of the dark. You must conquer it.

I’m not afraid of the dark, Mac said. But I think I must be afraid of the people in the dark. My parents were religious. That’s what they always taught me.

But I assume you no longer live with your parents, do you?

He chuckled. Not at my age. But my cross-carrying mother always made me feel guilty for being born. She was good at foisting guilt on me without even trying. After all, how could I ever repay a woman for squeezing my fat, squalling ass into existence? He smothered a laugh. She may have phrased it a bit different, but the message was the same and often repeated. And my father was afraid of what might happen to him if he spoke out against my mother.

So, listen, and take note, The Oracle said. Religion is for people who're afraid of going to hell. Non-conformity is for those who've heard all about their god’s endless mercy and have had enough of it. If you're African and you pray to your ancestors, you're a primitive. If you're an American Indian and you pray to the wolves, you're a savage. If you’re an Australian Aboriginal and follow your ancestors’ beliefs in creator-beings and the dreamtime, you’re nothing more than an ignorant savage. But when white ‘civilised’ people pray to a guy who claims to have turned water into wine and brought dead people back to life, well, that's just common sense, isn’t it? Because that’s what you’ve been told. You’ve been conditioned, as have many like you. Your religion assumes that people are children and need a bogeyman to make them behave and toe the party line. You have to shake off that coat of religious absurdity. What made you ask, anyway?

Because I want revenge for something, and I’ve always been told that, when you begin a journey of revenge, you should start by digging two graves - one for your enemy, and one for yourself.

More righteous nonsense.

But how do you know?

How did your religious teachers know any better than me? They had a mission to brainwash you, the same as they were brainwashed themselves when they were smaller. I have no such mission. I answer your questions in an honest, straightforward fashion and I leave you to draw your own conclusions. It’s no skin off my nose what you do with the advice. She reached to a low table to one side and picked up a little notebook. Mac was about to speak again, but The Oracle held up a bony old hand and silenced him. After a moment, she found what she was looking for. Let me read you a short excerpt from a book by Terry Pratchett. You remember Terry Pratchett? He wrote books with huge comedic value, but also of great depth and understanding of human nature. The American stand-up comedian, George Carlin, mastered the same skills. Anyway, this is from Terry Pratchett. She looked down and read direct from the pages of her notebook.

Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world's greatest creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn't mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, open a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.

She put her notebook away and looked up at Mac. That is exactly my own philosophy. You want revenge? You take revenge.

But what if it’s all in my head?

Of course it’s inside your head. But why should that mean it’s not real?

Mac smiled. That’s not the sort of traditional advice I’ve always heard.

No, it’s not. But I am not a traditional adviser. Some people call me The Oracle. It’s not a name I chose for myself. But it doesn’t bother me because an oracle is a person or agency considered to provide wise and insightful counsel. I don’t know whether I’m wise or not but, as you’re already beginning to discover, I disagree with a lot of traditional advice. Which is why people come to see me and consult with me. A traditional adviser will tell you, for instance, that the best revenge is living a good life. I say the best revenge is a bottle of acid in the face. Who will love your enemies then?

Mac was beginning to like the sound of this. Clear, unambiguous guidance from a woman with a reputation amongst those who had used her services. I’m very bitter about something, he said, justifying his emotions.

The Oracle stifled a laugh. Bitterness is the coward's revenge on the world for having been hurt. Revenge works better. To exact revenge for yourself is not only a right, it's an absolute duty. Do you understand?

I believe I am beginning to.

She pointed a bony finger at him. Banksy, the well-known street artist put it best. He said that there are four basic human needs - food, sleep, sex, and revenge. Believe it. He got that dead right.

Mac nodded. But I don’t know when I will get a chance to seek my revenge. I have just come back from America and the man I want to get my revenge on lives over there. I don’t know when I will next get the opportunity.

Be patient. Beware the fury of a patient man, as they say. While you wait for the opportunity, so your anger will grow. Like Terry Pratchett’s character, Granny Weatherwax. She considered her anger to be one of her strong points. She learnt how to control it. She dammed it up and let it develop a working head.

Mac laughed. Then she opened a pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.

The Oracle offered him a bent-tooth smile. You really were paying attention, weren’t you?

He chuckled. I’m just getting my hundred pounds worth. I love that line. It describes exactly what I want to happen.

The Oracle nodded. I’m pleased you find my answers help settle your mind.

The thing is, Mac said, if I took revenge - and I mean real, permanent revenge - would it be moral? Could I live with myself afterwards?

You mean, if you killed somebody?

That’s exactly what I mean.

Many who served in the armed forces in Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait, Bosnia, The Falklands, or wherever, considered their actions to be moral. But killing someone during wartime doesn’t make the casualty any less dead. Morality is temporary - wisdom is permanent. Find the wisdom to do what is necessary and leave morality to the do-gooders. Other people’s opinions are none of your business. They should play no part in your life. None whatsoever. Once you attain that level of understanding and act on it - only then will you secure true freedom.

But I’ve always been told that killing is wrong.

Ha! That’s your cultural background speaking. Every culture abides by different rules. If you were Muslim, you would find it perfectly reasonable to have sex with a twelve-year-old girl. Or boy for that matter. Over here they would imprison you and label you a sex offender for the rest of your life. It’s a cultural thing. Killing and revenge are accepted ways of life for some cultures, and some religions. The guy is gay? Throw him off the top of a high building. The woman had an affair with her neighbour? Execute her with a sword, or stone her to death. The girl goes against the wishes of her family? Soak her in petrol and set fire to her. Everybody is different. So live your own life, not somebody else’s. Do what you need to do. Get it out of your system.

Have you ever killed anybody?

She laughed - a hoarse, throaty laugh. That’s for me to know and you to worry about. Your hundred pounds won’t buy you that sort of answer. Just remember though, if you are neutral in a situation of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. You cannot not act. You must no longer fear what tomorrow might bring, because yesterday has brought it to you and you’re dealing with it. You have to deal with it - there is no other choice. You have to start a new tomorrow, today. Right now. This evening. In here.

But I confess, I’m still afraid to take that big step. I’m reluctant to commit myself to a certain course of action, even though it’s only in my mind at the moment.

Never turn your back on fear, The Oracle replied, sounding more stentorian than she had intended. Fear should always be in front of you, like a thing you must kill. Fear can be your friend if you use it well. Fear is a healthy instinct, not a sign of weakness. It is a natural self-defence mechanism that is common to all animals, and most humans.

Mac sounded unsure. How do I do that? How will I kill my fear of doing what needs to be done?

You have to work on it. Think of it like this - inside of you there are two dogs. One of them is mean and strident. The other dog is mild and timid. The mean dog is always picking fights with the timid dog. You want to know which one wins?

Mac pondered the question. After a while he said, Is it the one I feed the most?

The Oracle offered him a toothy grin and clapped her tiny hands. Now, you are making real progress. A gold star and a smiley face for that answer. Of course it is. It’s the dog you feed the most. Your anger will kill your fear if you allow it to. Just feel free to feed your anger. Because that will overcome your fear.

Mac though for a moment. The Oracle sat silent and unmoving. But is it intelligent of me to be even thinking this way?

With the current leaning towards those dreadful social media networks, it is my belief that the IQ and the life expectancy of the average human being have recently passed each other in opposite directions. Many Facebook supporters believe anything that somebody else posts, no matter how ridiculous. Even to the extent of thinking that militant atheists are using aeroplane chemtrails to poison the angels in heaven. So, to be frank, any form of logical assessment is intelligent by comparison. Consider what you want to achieve. Does revenge get you a step closer? Does it lay to rest ghosts from the past? Will it help you sleep at night? If the answer to these question is ‘yes’ then it is profoundly intelligent to be thinking the way you are. She chuckled. Revenge is the healthiest meal that was ever cooked in the mind of an intelligent person. Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated. Recrimination is for the true hero. So, do you plan on becoming that hero?

Mac sat quiet for several long moments. How safe am I in telling you all this?

The old lady laughed. I’m like the priest at confession. I listen. I offer advice. I forget everything. The difference between me and a priest is that I don’t dispense guilt. But otherwise, I guard your confidentiality in the same way. In the Catholic Church, the Seal of Confession is the absolute duty of priests or anyone who happens to hear someone’s confession not to disclose anything that they learn from penitents during the course of that confession. I, too, take the same point of view. In any case, I’m sure you’re not really called Mac. I have no idea who you really are, and I don’t care. You can tell me whatever you want.

Mac just smiled.

So, let me ask you again, The Oracle said, do you plan on taking your revenge?

Mac was quiet. Thinking. The Oracle too. She knew he was on the verge of a resolution. In the end, Mac sat bolt upright and threw his hands into the air. Then let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of my revenge.

So be it, said The Oracle. You’re free to leave a little extra gratuity on the way out if you feel my advice has helped.

CHAPTER ONE

G oddam ass-end of the friggin’ universe, Lenny muttered after he had explained his reason for being there to the doorman, or hat-check, or whatever the hell the man was.

If you’ll wait just a minute, sir, I’ll go and confirm with Mister Underhill. He may be busy right at the moment because they’re doing a full dress-rehearsal today.

Yeah, yeah, just go and do whatever you gotta do. But make it snappy will ya? I ain’t got all day.

The theatre caretaker, Charlie Wood, sauntered away, looking as interested as a fish swimming slow circles in its bowl. A fit man of twenty-eight, Charlie could have bounced up the six carpeted steps that led into the main auditorium like an athlete, but a bit of disrespect for this loud-mouthed American was fine in his book. At the top of the short flight, he turned, Sorry, what was the name again?

You know goddam well what it is. Barlow. Lenny Barlow. And don’t forget to remind him I own LSB Studios in Hollywood.

Charlie nodded. Barlow. LSB Studios, he repeated out loud, like Lenny was a nobody. He ambled away, out of sight.

Lenny tutted and hitched up his trousers. Bloody amateur, he muttered to himself. No wonder he’s a friggin’ failure. The whole fuckin’ place is staffed by failures. As far as Lenny Barlow was concerned, the caretaker was like many other irrelevant people he met every day. Just some generic face like a thousand other generic faces that passed through his life. Another wannabe in a world full of wannabes. The Isle of Man, he sighed to himself. What a shit heap. Fuckin’ god-forsaken pissy little place in the middle of the fuckin’ Irish sea and they have to launch ‘The Death of Logic’ here. Thirty-five miles by ten. Christ, the whole damn island is only half the size of Los Angeles. Goddam bunch of poncy limeys.

After a few minutes muttering to himself while he paced across the tiles of the theatre’s spacious entrance foyer, Lenny decided to take matters into his own hands. He climbed the short but wide flight of steps, following the direction the doorman had taken. He heard voices and headed towards the sounds. In moments, he found himself in the side aisle of the main auditorium. The theatre stopped him dead as he scanned his surroundings. Even he had to admit it was impressive. He’d read up on The Gaiety during the flight over from Stateside. In this case though, the reality was better than the write-up.

The Gaiety Theatre was the sort of place that Lenny had always imagined a theatre should look like. The nearest he’d ever seen to it were the historical photos of the Mercury Theatre in New York in 1937. Gilt columns and plush curtains to the private boxes. Three tiers of balconies. Gold scroll-work and sconces. The tall columnar folds of the drapes on either side of the stage. And a grand, glazed cupola high up in the vaulted ceiling. Lenny wasn’t in awe of much in life, except his own success, yet his first impressions of the Gaiety Theatre came close to a ‘Wow’ moment. The place was quaint in a very British sort of way... but way too small to make any real money. And wasn’t that all that really mattered?

The theatre thrummed with noise as technicians, props staff, and actors scrambled to get their work done before commencing the dress rehearsal. There was no shouting like Lenny was used to hearing on a film set, just the constant buzz and bumble of people talking, asking, explaining and instructing.

What are you doing here? a voice called out. I asked you to wait in the foyer.

Lenny gave the doorman his best smile, like a shark spotting a tasty meal. Just did a little exploring while I waited for you. Which one is John Underhill, the producer?

A tall man with receding salt and pepper hair and a small goatee beard turned at the sound of his name. He wore round, wire-frame, John Lennon glasses I am, he said. What can I do for you?

Lenny strode forward, ignoring the protests of the doorman. As he neared Underhill, he held his arm out straight, offering a handshake. Lenny Barlow, LSB Studios in Hollywood.

John Underhill ignored the handshake, holding his hands at his sides. Ah, Mister Barlow. I believe Sam has already responded to your many phone calls.

Yeah, well I just wanted the chance to discuss it— he glanced around at the others, —in private.

Do you want me to remove him? asked Charlie, the caretaker, doorman and gopher.

Lenny Barlow glanced at him. You and whose army, son? Lenny was a big, heavy guy. Charlie was pretty solid but no match for someone like Barlow.

John Underhill shook his head, which was when Lenny noticed he had a pony tail. It’s okay thanks, Charlie. I can deal with it from here.

Charlie nodded and sloped away.

Underhill continued - addressing Lenny this time. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, Mister Barlow, but I believe that Sam has made it most clear in his numerous phone conversations with you that, at this moment in time, turning ‘The Death of Logic’ into a film does not interest us.

But we can call it something else. Something a bit shorter and catchier. I thought ‘Revenge’ would make a great title. What do you think?

The book title hasn’t stopped it from being a runaway best seller in dozens of countries. It seems you’re not listening. We’re not interested.

But we’re willing to throw big dollars at this, John. I can call you John, can’t I?

Underhill’s eyebrows arched into two rooftops above his glasses. I seem to be having difficulty getting through to you, he said. The answer is no. The writer of the original novel, Cordelia Armstrong, has signed the rights over to Sam Hammond who has written the playscript. He pointed with a vague wave somewhere over his shoulder.

Lenny noticed the flesh-coloured chamois leather gloves on the producer’s hands. He made no comment, already knowing that these theatre people were worse than strange. He was, in Lenny’s view, just one of those poncy theatre luvvies you hear about. The little round Lennon glasses, the ponytail, and the goatee beard sealed that thought tight in Lenny’s head. He wasn’t big on poofs’ rights, though there was a lot of it about nowadays. As long as they earned him money, he didn’t care too much. Where’s Sam then? he asked. I don’t see him.

I’m here, said a man who had been standing behind John Underhill, almost as if he didn’t want to be seen.

Ah, yes, there you are. So, come on, let’s try again. Let’s dicker. Everybody has their price.

Sam Hammond shook his head. He had curly thinning hair with no discernible parting. Like steel wool that had been pulled into fine shreds. Unlike John Underhill’s trimmed goatee, his own beard was wild, irregular, and coarse. When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched. Effeminate, almost. As I’ve already explained many times, Mister Barlow - with Miss Armstrong’s written authority, I have adapted her book into a play, which is going to run in regional theatres to judge reactions before going to the West End. Miss Armstrong is old school and believes that stage plays offer more to an audience than big screen.

A much smaller audience though. I mean how big is this place?

Designed to seat 800 people, Mister Barlow.

See, that’s the thing. 800 times about twenty dollars a show don’t even compute. We’re talking audiences in the millions. We’re talking profits in the tens, or even hundreds, of millions.

And we’re talking quality, Mister Barlow. Look around you, what do you see?

A small theatre, not much bigger than a hen house.

Sam Hammond sighed. That’s very uncouth, and unsophisticated. The Gaiety Theatre as you see it today was redesigned by renowned architect Frank Matcham. It opened soon after as a grand Opera House and Theatre. Now, I admit that, over the following seventy years, the building suffered a chequered history, but the Isle of Man Government acquired it fifty years ago and brought it back to Matcham’s original design. It is now a key heritage building and an active centre for the Performing Arts. And, as John has already pointed out to you, we have a first-class story written by a world-renowned novelist, and we have managed to secure the services of two of Britain’s finest leading actors in the key roles.

Don’t mean you’re going to make any money.

No it doesn’t, but that’s a risk that our sponsors are willing to take. So, the answer, as John has already told you, is ‘no’. Now we have a play to produce so, if you’ll excuse us... he turned away.

Lenny Barlow spluttered. He wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘no’. And he wasn’t used to being dismissed with a wave of the hand from an effeminate, intellectually-backward barbarian who didn’t even speak good American English. But this is just a pissy regional theatre. It’s not even the West End of London, is it?

Sam turned back to face him. "The Gaiety Theatre has a long tradition of staging new plays. It’s the way we do things in Britain. You try out something new in a small regional theatre, modify scripts that may need adjusting and, if the public reaction is good, you expand it to other regions prior