Текст книги "The Dark Horse "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Chapter Two

As usual Steve was late.

He showed up at a quarter to three, trudging around the back of the house to the deck where I sat sunning myself and flipping through the latest issue of Food and Wine. Duke Ellington's «New Mood Indigo» floated through the open sliding door, floating up to where the gulls wheeled overhead.

«Dude, you changed the lock on your front door,» he announced, tossing a powder blue-bound screenplay onto the patio table. «You never even used to close the windows. Was that Dan the Man's idea?»

«Sort of.» The truth was I'd changed the locks after the first time Paul Hammond showed up uninvited in my living room. Steve had to be thinking of the old days – back when I'd believed I was the only crazy person to worry about.

He went into the house and reappeared a few moments later with a Corona. Pulling out one of the wooden chairs, he sat down. «Where is he?» I didn't need to ask who. «He went into town to pick a few things up.»

He nodded noncommittally, took a long swig from his beer. «So how are you doing?» «Good.» «Yeah?»

I grinned. Steve's answering grin was lopsided. He was my age, medium height, compact build, and an attractive freckled face. We'd been friends since college, practically as long as we'd been business partners.

He reached for the ring I wore on a silver chain around my neck. I put up a protective hand. «Isn't this moving kind of fast?»

I shrugged. «Feels right to me.» I could have explained the ring. It wasn't what Steve thought. Dan and I had been in an antique shop. I'd seen the ring and said it was pretty, which it was: old-fashioned setting and «chocolate» diamonds. Dan had bought it for a couple of dollars. Mostly as a joke. It didn't fit me or anything. «So he's moved in?»

«Not officially,» I admitted. «But we haven't spent a night under separate roofs since he took the bodyguard gig.» Steve's smile was wry. «Well, you're the happiest I've seen you in a long time.» «I am.» «Just … fuck, I don't know.» I studied him curiously. «You don't like Dan, do you?»

He reached over and shifted the screenplay next to his elbow a fraction to the left. «I don't know. He's okay. I mean, he's a great looking guy and he seems to really care about you. He makes you laugh, which is good.» He grimaced. «Maybe I'm jealous.» «Nah. Come on. What is it?» Steve's brown eyes met mine. «He seems a little controlling. Possessive.» I considered this. «He does?» Steve raised a shoulder. «Yeah. Maybe it's a cop thing.» «Yeah,» I said slowly.

Steve drank more beer. «Hey, listen. I know you're hot on doing this role, and I respect that. It's a good script and a great role, I have no doubt. Just remember, it's the kind of part that's liable to get you typecast, which until now you've avoided. And that's a good thing, regardless of what that asshole Lenny Norman thinks or says.» «Duly noted,» I said. «Peter Grady has already expressed interest in working with you again.» «He has?» «His people called your people.» «You mean his agent called you?»

«Yep. And Winston Marshall, who is producing the film, is definitely interested in you – which I think is how we managed to score a copy of the script. I think he put pressure on Norman.» It was all I could do not to grab for the screenplay then and there.

«Just keep in mind that working with a director who didn't want you wouldn't be a good thing. Especially for you.» «Come on, Steve,» I said. «Hey. I'm just saying. There are other considerations.» «Like the fact that I wouldn't get my usual fee? Such as it is.» «Bingo.» «Money isn't everything.» «It is when you need it.»

We talked a while longer and I invited Steve to dinner. He declined on the grounds that he had previous plans, and took off not long after. I wondered if he really had plans or if this was about Dan. It would be awkward as hell if Steve really disliked Dan. I wondered what Dan thought about Steve. Or if he thought about him at all.

Rising, I got myself another beer from the fridge, changed the record to Frank Sinatra's Only the Lonely and settled back in the lounge chair with the screenplay for The Charioteer. FADE IN EXT. DUNKIRK – DAY

The sea air worked its way into the script as I pictured the chaos of Dunkirk: the sprawl of the dead and dying beneath the black pall of smoke in the windless sky; the makeshift armada of ships and boats and skiffs and rafts and anything that could float; the exhausted and shamed British troops. Ice cold water, the whistle of shells overhead, the smell of guns and brine and blood and death – Laurie Odell with his kneecap blown off, out of his skull with morphia and pain and seasickness.

Sort of put my own problems into perspective. How the hell did anyone hold it together under those conditions? And how the hell were they going to convey the magnitude of the disaster of Dunkirk on a shoestring budget?

I had just reached the part where Ralph Lanyon realizes that the blood-drenched soldier he is asked to pronounce dead is Laurie Odell, a man who holds a special place in his boyhood memories, when I got that prickly feeling you get when you know you're being watched.

Looking up, I expected to see Mrs. Wiggly on patrol. Nothing. The white beach was blindingly empty in the afternoon sun. A few boats dotted the distant blue glitter of the water.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head, staring up at the hillside behind the house. A man stood on the flat-topped rock that overlooked this private stretch of beach.

He was too far away to make out his face, but I recognized the shaggy blond hair, the baggy Hawaiian shirt, the black sunglasses. Paul Hammond. My mouth went dry. My heart started slugging hard against my ribcage.

It can't be, I thought. Don't flip out over a coincidence. This is a beach town. Half the guys around here have shaggy hair. Half the guys out here wear sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts.

I blinked. The guy on the rock was still looking my way. Or maybe he was just facing my way. Don't start imagining things, I told myself.

Shading my eyes with my hand, I tried to get a better look, and as I stared – trying not to be too obvious about it – he waved to me.

I short-circuited, incapable for several long seconds of thinking what my next move should be. Finally, shakily, I stood and walked into the house. From inside the doorway I stared back at the hillside. The man was gone.

He couldn't be gone, gone. He must have moved on down the hillside where I couldn't see him from where I stood. «Maria?»

Maria Martinez, my housekeeper, withdrew from the oven, holding up her inky-stained orange plastic gloves. «Si?» She gazed at me with her beautiful, solemn olive eyes.

«When you cleaned up the breakfast dishes, what did you do with the postcard that was on the table?» «I didn't see no postcard, Mr. Fairchild.»

«There was a picture postcard on the table. Right next to the jam pot.» I could hear the agitation rising in my voice despite the silliness of the words. Maria was staring at me, slowly shaking her head. «No.»

«Yes.» I made a little square with my hands as though that might refresh her memory. «There was a postcard.»

Somehow her expression managed to look both polite and like she thought I was losing it. Then she brightened. «Oh, si. Mr. Moran. He take something off the table. You ask heem, Mr. Fairchild.» She smiled to show me there were no hard feelings and returned to scrubbing the inside of the stove.

I walked over to the sliding door and stared out through the screen. Chaparral stirred in the wind. The hillside was bare of anyone. Dan was late getting home – and that was not usual.

I told myself to get used to it. I'd done enough cop shows to know that detectives keep irregular hours – even when they're not working.

It was nearly five-thirty when the screen door suddenly slid open. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but Dan didn't seem to notice, walking out on the deck and kissing me hello.

«Sorry, I'm late. Traffic was a bitch down PCH.» He handed me a bottle of wine and a flat brown-wrapped parcel.

«It's okay.» I glanced at the wine – a very nice chardonnay – and took the parcel. «Are we celebrating?» «Aren't we?» Just for a moment his smile was unsure. «I guess we are.» I picked at the string of the package. «What's this?» «Something for you.»

«Yeah?» I couldn't remember the last time somebody bought me a gift Just Because. When you're the guy with the money, people just assume you're picking up the tab.

I tore open the wrapping and studied the indigo-blue cover: Ella Fitzgerald's profile faced the New York nightscape. The original 1957 Verve recording of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Gershwin Song Book. «My God, where did you find this?» «That little place in Santa Monica where you buy the phonograph needles.»

«I … thank you.» I turned the cover over and studied the play list. «'The Man I Love,'» I read aloud. «'Nice Work if You Can Get It.'» I smiled at him.

«Ain't that the truth.» He leaned forward and kissed me again. Fresh male with a hint of mint. If this kept up I would soon be addicted to the flavor of him «Want me to put it on?»

I nodded, handing it over and following him inside to unwrap the scallops sitting on the counter. Looking through to the living room I could see Dan's suitcases sitting by the staircase. I was smiling as Ella launched into «But Not for Me.» Wrong this time, Ella.

I washed the scallops while the chopped onion and garlic sauteed. Dan poured himself a martini and refilled my glass. «So what did you do today?» I shrugged. «Relaxed mostly.» «Good. That's what you need.»

I bit back my first response. He didn't mean anything; he was thinking of the last couple of weeks, that was all. And I couldn't really blame him. By the time Steve had persuaded me to go to the police, panic attacks were becoming part of my daily routine –right there with all the grooming aids.

I replied, «Then I got what I needed. I worked out. Read. Steve brought the script by.»

I measured out white wine and chicken stock, poured them in to the frying pan, turned the heat down to a «smiling boil.» I love that phrase: smiling boil. The aroma of the cooking garlic, onion, and wine worked their magic. Cooking as therapy.

«How's old Steve?» Dan settled on the bar stool across the counter, sipped his martini. Not that many guys can carry off a martini glass, but he had that kind of '50s cool that enabled him to drink martinis and still look tough. Adding the Pernod to the pan, I reduced the heat. «Okay. Like usual.»

I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the guy that looked like Paul Hammond, but I knew what he would think. And I knew that Paul Hammond was dead. I did know that, it was just … «So what did you think of the script?» «I've only started reading it. I like the choices they've made so far.» He picked up the plate of scallops. «You want me to start these?»

I nodded. He went outside and I added more Pernod to the sauce and took the rice off the burner. The asparagus had been perfect ten minutes earlier, but there was no way of fixing that.

When I stepped outside Dan was seated on the railing, staring out at the sunset. The water looked dark and purple, the sun orange, like a Malibu postcard. I didn't want to think about postcards. He glanced my way and asked, «So you think you'll want to do it?»

I knew what he meant. «I think so, yeah. Assuming Lenny Norman can stomach the idea of me playing the lead in one of his films.» He held his glass out and we clicked rims.

«You get restless not working,» he observed. «Cooking is not much of a diversion. And God help you if your metabolism ever slows down.»

«I'll become the forty-ninth most beautiful character actor in Hollywood.» My metabolism would never slow down. No one in my family was fat. Or gay. «Those are ready,» I said, nodding to the scallops sizzling away on the grill.

According to Dan, any cooking that didn't involve charcoal or a spatula was out of his class. He claimed he had two dishes he served for dates: his secret recipe spareribs and his eggs benedict special. I had the impression these usually followed one another closely in his social calendar. He hadn't fixed either of them for me yet; I wasn't sure if that was a promising sign or not.

He rescued the scallops, handing the plate over to me. «Are we eating inside or out?»

Evenings were chilly here on the coast, but I liked being outside, liked the sound of the waves a few yards away, liked looking up at the stars. It felt like we were a million miles from town – just about far enough. «Out.»

Dan brought down sweaters and we ate by the flickering candlelight, listening to Ella through the open glass door.

I talked to him about the script. In one of my rare pauses for breath it occurred to me that he didn't have much to say tonight – but then Dan chose his words carefully. I wondered if he liked it this way or if I needed to give him more chances to get a word in edgewise.

In a way it had been easier a week ago when we were just dealing with being attracted to each other – now that we were embarking on a relationship – and we were embarking, the luggage in my front room made it official – it was suddenly much harder. I found myself worrying about stuff I'd never previously considered – like was he liable to suddenly notice that I was boring and self-absorbed?

I mean, I played make-believe for a living – and earned (when I did manage to get paid) a ridiculous amount of money for it. Dan was a real-life hero. He had saved lives. His job made a difference – he made a difference. «You're quiet all at once,» he observed. «Makes a nice change, doesn't it?»

He shook his head a little as though that wasn't worth answering. «So what's the deal with this movie? Why do you want to do it so much?»

I shrugged. «It's hard to explain. The book was a big influence on me. You've never read it?» «No.»

«It's beautiful. It's by Mary Renault, the one who did all those historical novels about ancient Greece. This one is contemporary – well, it was when she wrote it. Kind of a wartime romance. I probably can't explain it without making it sound trite.» «What's it about?»

«It's about a wounded English soldier who falls in love with a conscientious objector during World War II.» «Sounds like fun.» «Telling you the plot doesn't really explain it properly.» «I'm guessing they're both gay?»

«That's kind of the point of the novel. Coming to terms with their sexuality. Laurie knows he's –« «Laurie?»

I had the sinking feeling that if he kept interrupting, or worse, if he mocked the book, it was going to change the way I saw him, the hopes I had for what was happening between us.

I took a deep breath. Tried again. «Short for Lawrence. Mostly he's called Spud. Anyway, he knows he's gay, but the kid, Andrew, who is a Quaker as well as a CO, doesn't. Doesn't know that he's gay. Actually, he doesn't know that Laurie's gay either.» I hesitated, expecting another interruption. Dan said nothing.

«And then there's also Ralph who was Laurie's house master or whatever they called it when he was at school. Public school – which in Britain is private school. Laurie was sort of in love with Ralph, without realizing it. Because back then, he was like Andrew. Laurie, I mean, not Ralph. So his feelings for Andrew mirror his own relationship with Ralph, but they aren't realistic. They aren't real life love, see? And the book is really about that, about balancing the needs of the soul between the earthy and the ideal – and about living your life with honor and dignity. It's based on one of Plato's dialogs, Phaedo, and Renault refers back to the metaphor of a charioteer trying to control two horses, a white one and a black one.» I was babbling. But Dan nodded as though I was making great sense.

«So, anyway, Ralph comes back into his life and Laurie has to choose between Ralph and Andrew.» «Who does he choose?»

«He chooses the dark horse. He chooses life with all its complexities and contradictions and disappointments and … delights.» I half-swallowed on the last word, surprising myself by my own intensity. I tried to explain, «I read it when I was … ill.»

I met Dan's eyes. In the wavering candlelight his gaze was attentive, understanding. I had to look away. Maybe it would have been easier if he had just laughed.

Hurriedly, I said, «I don't know how good a film it will make because it's a lot of talk and a lot of Laurie thinking. And it's a period piece. And it's a gay romance.» «But you want to do it anyway.»

I nodded. «It … helped. The book, I mean. It helped a lot. It convinced me that there were people out there like me. Men like me. And that they were decent and honorable and courageous, not the warped diseased things that my parents believed in.»

God, how much had I drunk? I couldn't believe I'd told him that. I wished he would say something. I felt naked; I had said too much. I shrugged. «I can't put it into words. It struck a chord with me. It struck a chord with a lot of people. It's considered a classic.» «I'll have to read it one of these days.» He covered my hand with his.

«Or maybe you can just see the movie.» Belatedly I was the one trying for lightness.

«I'll be in the front row.» He lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, his lips sending little frissons over the sensitive scar tissue. * * * * *

Later, when we were undressing for bed, I said impulsively, «I thought I saw Paul Hammond today.»

Dan, mid-shooting his boxers into the dirty clothes hamper, halted and turned my way. «Where?» «On the hill behind the house.»

I knew immediately it had been a mistake to tell him. He continued to study me for a long moment, not saying anything, just assessing the situation like a good detective.

I said quickly, «I know it couldn't have been him. It just … spooked me. It looked like him from a distance.» «What was he doing?» I knew that neutral tone.

«Nothing. I mean, I guess he was looking out at the ocean. He waved to me.» Dan's face changed. Before he could say anything I qualified, «I mean, I was staring his way and he waved to me, so obviously he couldn't have been Paul Hammond. Especially since he's dead.» Okay. Shut up now.

Dan said, «It's natural after a year of that bullshit that you're still keeping an eye out for him. And it's natural that somebody with Hammond's build or coloring would remind you of him.» I nodded. Was he trying to reassure me or himself?

Chapter Three

There was another postcard in the mail the next day.

Vintage colored pencil drawing of the old «movie star colony» on Roosevelt Highway. I stared at the little white houses with their red and green roofs as though I could see my poison penpal sitting inside plotting his next move. The message on the back was in Hammond's writing. Soon … I rang Dan at work.

He listened in silence as I finished, «If it's not Hammond, then who's sending these? The postmark is Malibu.»

He said quietly, «It's probably some nutcase who read about you and Hammond in the papers.» «How would he get the beach house address?»

«It might be someone local. Malibu has its share of whack jobs like anywhere else.»

«Great. So now what? I have another psycho after me? Have they found Hammond's body?» «It's not Hammond.» I clamped my jaw on a lot of things that I knew I would regret saying later.

«Fine. It's not Hammond. So who is it? And, by the way, what did you do with the postcard from yesterday?»

I heard him draw in a breath. He said very patiently, «Okay. Look, do you want me to come home?»

I did, but hearing him say it brought me back to Earth fast. Maybe it was the word «home.» «No.» «Are you sure? I know this is the last thing you needed right now.»

Maybe he meant because I was in the middle of reading a script for a movie no one wanted me to do. Or maybe he meant because I wasn't bouncing back as quickly as he'd hoped from my last psycho-stalker bout.

«I'm okay. I just don't understand why this is happening again.» What the hell were the odds of attracting two stalkers within a year? Was it my aftershave? «I promise you, if I thought this was a genuine threat –« «What did you do with yesterday's postcard?» Did he hesitate? I couldn't tell. He said, «I'm having it analyzed.»

So was that reassuring or not? He obviously thought the threat was real enough to investigate – or maybe he was just being careful. He was a very careful guy. «Well, how long will it take before you know anything? «It's not like TV or the movies. It takes time.» «I know that. How long do you think?» «A couple of weeks maybe.» «Weeks?»

He said matter-of-factly, «It's not high priority, Sean. I'm doing it for confirmation, that's all.»

Into my silence, he asked again, «Are you okay or do you need me to leave work early?»

There was only one appropriate answer. I said, «I'm fine. I'll see you this evening.»

Swimming makes me ravenous. I was raiding the fridge after a late morning dip when the phone rang. I poured OJ into the glass Maria handed me, and passed her the plate with zucchini-walnut muffins to heat in the microwave.

«Dude, you're not going to believe this,» Steve began as I picked up. «I think someone shot at me yesterday afternoon!» «You're kidding me.»

«No shit. There's what looks like a little bullet hole in the Sebring's windshield.» «When did it happen?» «I don't know. Sometime after I left your place yesterday afternoon.» «Have you called the cops?»

«Dude. What would I tell them? I don't know when it happened, let alone where or who might have done it. It's probably kids screwing around. It looks like a BB hole to me, to tell you the truth.» «You should probably report it, though.» «Uh, yeah. Sure.» On impulse, I said, «Are you doing anything this afternoon?»

«Yeah. I'm taking a meeting at Warner Bros and then I'm driving down to Santa Anita Park.» «On a weekday?» «You're kidding, right? The Oak Tree meet runs all this month.» «Could you postpone the race track and meet me for lunch?»

I thought for a moment Steve's cell phone had cut out, then he said with unusual seriousness, «What's up? Something with Dan?» «Dan? No. No, it's complicated.» «Okay. Yeah. I can meet you. At the house?»

«No, I want to get out of here for a little while. Maybe Pt. Dume? We could eat at Coral Beach Cantina. I like the crab enchiladas.»

«Yeah,» said Steve. «'Cause nothing goes with crisis like crab enchiladas. Okay, but I can't be there before 2:30.» «That's fine. It's past Heathercliffe on PCH. Down the big hill.» «I remember,» Steve said. «I'll call you if I'm running late.» I said, «You're already running late. I'll wait.» * * * * *

Sitting on the tree-shaded patio of the Coral Beach Cantina, I ordered a micro brew and nachos. The juke box was playing «Boys of Summer» by Don Henley, and I was counting the disproportionate number of blonds, both male and female, filling the seats around me, when Steve dropped into the chair across the table. «Dude, you're so mysterious. It must come from living with a cop.» I summoned a weak smile.

«So what's up?» He reached for a tortilla chip. Gooey strings of cheese stretched a foot from the platter. «You want to order first?»

Steve grimaced and waved the waitress over. We ordered and then Steve sat back in his chair. «Okay, come on, Sean. You're starting to make me nervous. Are you looking to change representation?» «Of course not.» «So what's the deal?» I said, «I think Paul Hammond is still alive.»

Steve swallowed his beer the wrong way. He set the mug down shakily, coughing into his bare arm. When he had his voice back, he questioned, «Why the hell would you think that?» «Because they still haven't found his body.» «Because his car crashed into the aqueduct.» «So what? There should still be a body.» «It washed down the aqueduct.»

«It's not like there's a riptide in the aqueduct. They had divers looking and they couldn't find the body.»

«Yeah, but Sean, there's no way he could have survived that crash. I saw the photos in the newspaper. No way he walked away from that.» «What if he wasn't in the car when it went into the aqueduct?»

«It was a high speed pursuit. It's not like he had time to stop, get out and push the car in and then hide behind some bushes. He was under police surveillance for another thing.» «It was night. Someone might have missed something.» «Sean –« «I got a postcard from him yesterday. And another one today.» Steve's brows drew together. «What are you talking about?»

«The postcards have started again. Yesterday's card said, 'Miss me?' Today's said, 'Soon.'» «Was the handwriting –?» «Dan's having it analyzed to be sure, but I know his writing. It's Hammond.» «So Dan knows about this?»

I nodded. «He was there when I got the first card, but he doesn't believe Hammond is alive.» «Then who's sending the cards?»

«He thinks it's a copycat stalker. Someone who read about Hammond and me and decided to pick up where Hammond left off.» «He's the expert, I guess.»

«There's more,» I said. I lowered my voice as though afraid somebody – Dan? – might hear this part. «I think I saw Hammond yesterday.» Steve had a weird expression. «You are shitting me. Where?»

«On the hillside behind the house. I couldn't be sure, but from a distance it looked a hell of a lot like him: same build, same shaggy blond hair, same baggy Hawaiian print shirt, black shades.» «But that was from a distance,» Steve pointed out. «I know. But I did see someone. Dan thinks –« I bit the rest of it off. «Dan thinks what?»

Reluctantly, I said, «I feel like maybe he wonders whether I'm imagining things. Or that I'm making too much of a coincidence.» Steve said slowly, «He knows about your breakdown, right?» I nodded. Steve thought it over. «But you didn't imagine the postcards.» «True.»

Two tanned twenty-somethings stopped by our table. A chubby blonde handed me a damp cocktail napkin to autograph.

«You were so great in Winchester 2010,» she said. «I was so, like, totally pissed when they killed you off.» «Thanks.» I ignored Steve's snickers. «Told you so,» he remarked to no one in particular.

«Are you really gay?» the red-haired one said. She offered a Sharpie and her bare shoulder for me to sign. «Nah,» I replied. «It's just something I say to meet girls.» They giggled then moved off whispering and looking back. Steve drained his beer, and leaned forward on his elbows.

«Look, why don't you come down to Santa Anita with me? Spend the weekend kicking back. I think it would do you good to get away.»

I studied him, liking the broad freckled planes of his face and his wide wry mouth. I remembered kissing that mouth. And how weird to think of that now.

I shook my head. «I don't like crowds. And I'm tired of relaxing. I want to get back to work.»

His gaze dropped down to my chest, as though making note of the ring on the chain. «Okay. Well … what do you want me to do?»

«I don't know. Obviously we can't go to the cops again, since the cop I live with doesn't believe there's a problem.» «Dude.»

The waitress brought our lunches. I waited for her to depart before I offered a lopsided smile. «I don't know that there's anything to do at this point. I needed to talk to someone, that's all.»

«Hey,» Steve said, «I'm still here for you, you know that. Besides, I remember how long it took to convince you to go to the cops over Hammond. You don't panic that easily. If you say something's going down, I believe you.» «Thanks, Steve.»

«One thing I can do,» he said, «is talk to LAPD myself. Find out where they are in recovering Hammond's body.» I said, «That would help.» «Not if Hammond's still alive,» he said with an odd laugh.

What I like about cooking is that, so long as you follow the recipe exactly, everything always turns out perfect. It's too bad there's no recipe for happiness. Happiness is more like pastry – which is to say that you can take pains to keep cool and not overwork the dough, but if you don't have that certain light touch, your best efforts still fall flat.

The work-around is to buy what you need. I'm talking about pastry, not happiness, although money does make things easier all around.

There are a number of cafe bakeries in Malibu, but I mostly satisfy my sweet tooth at Cooke's Family Market, which is where I headed after saying goodbye to Steve. I felt better having shared my fears with someone who didn't instantly suspect I was cracking up, and I spent a pleasant half an hour selecting pastries for Saturday morning breakfast, lingering over the varieties of cheese and the amazing selection of olives.

I wasn't allowing myself to think about Paul Hammond. I focused my thoughts on The Charioteer screenplay, and while I shopped I thought about what it would be like to lose a knee cap. Now they could probably reconstruct the joint – maybe do something bionic –

but back in the '40s? You'd be crippled, no doubt about it. And any injury to a kneecap was going to be excruciatingly painful. Laurie Odell was younger than me; what would it be like to face years of pain? To face the rest of my life as a disabled man? I tried to think of all the things I took for granted: swimming, running – having sex. The film-Laurie was going to wear a leg brace. I felt that was gimmicky and heavy-handed, but it would make it easier to play. No having to remember which leg or faking a limp.

Pushing the cart, I turned into the arctic produce department and froze – literally. Paul Hammond stood a few feet away. He held a cantaloupe, weighing it in his hand.

I couldn't seem to move. He was so close I could have rammed my cart into him. It was him: blue Hawaiian shirt, bushy blond hair that looked like a fright wig, deeply tanned pockmarked skin, black sunglasses …

He had to feel me staring at him, had to have followed me into the market, but he just stood there, ignoring me, fondling melons.

His cheap aftershave filled my nostrils. I felt cold to the bone, shaking on the inside and out. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't think of what to say. If he had spoken to me –even looked at me – but he did nothing. We were alone here. Why didn't he acknowledge me? I couldn't think of what to do. It was surely something obvious.