Top of the Bill

TOP OF THE BILL

By: Joyce Hicks

BATHED in spotlight, Leonard and Lou made a final sweeping bow before
disappearing into the wings. Despite the cheers and thunderous applause
still ringing in their ears, Lou's smile instantly vanished. By the
time they reached their dressing room his face had contorted into an
ugly scowl.

From the clutter of the dressing table Lou snatched up a bottle of
scotch, half filled a tumbler and downed it in one. He refilled the
glass instantly, slumped heavily into the seat behind him and swivelled
around to glare accusingly at his partner. As usual, Leonard was eyeing
him with that strange mixture of haughty amusement and criticism that
Lou was beginning to detest.

'Unless I'm mistaken, you're rather upset about something,' Leonard
drawled, with the air of one who didn't give a damn one way or the
other.

It was the kind of supreme understatement only Leonard was capable of,
almost comical given the circumstances, except Lou wasn't laughing. He
wasn't fooled, either. Tonight Leonard had gone too far. A man could
only take so much, and Lou had had enough. Weeks of frustration
suddenly poured out in a raging torrent of anger.

'Upset? You dare to sit there looking pleased with yourself and suggest
that I'm "rather upset"? Try bloody furious!' he exploded. 'I've had it
with you constantly sabotaging the script. You just can't stick to it,
can you? You know damn well you're deliberately ad-libbing so I don't
know how the hell to respond, and while everyone's falling about
laughing you watch me wriggle and squirm, and you love it! That's what
I'm "rather upset" about and you bloody-well know it!'

Lou drained his glass again and immediately refilled it. By now the
scotch should have deadened the senses, dulled the pain. But not
tonight. The embarrassment had been too great, the humiliation too
intense. Leonard had really excelled himself tonight, and his seemingly
effortless wit had gone down a storm. The audience loved it, had urged
him on thinking it was all part of the act, all rehearsed. In fact
precious little of it had been rehearsed and Lou, floundering
helplessly, had been as much in the dark as the audience as to what was
coming next. Within minutes of walking on stage Leonard had snatched
control, and like a dog with a meaty bone nobody was going to take it
off him.

It was different once. . . They'd worked together now for close on six
years, and it was always Lou who supervised the act and choreographed
the routines; Lou who wrote the scripts that made people laugh and
applaud. And he'd done it damned successfully for more years than he
cared to remember. His biggest mistake had been Leonard.

What was he anyway, when Lou first took him on? Just a public school
twit with little to contribute himself except the words, the routine
that Lou gave him. He'd been pitifully grateful, too, oh yes - because
Lou had rescued him from a third-rate act that was going nowhere except
straight into theatrical oblivion. And this - this nightmare - was
Lou's reward.

Leonard sighed dramatically. 'Is that it?' He sounded stupendously
bored. 'You mean, all this tiresome angst and ill humour is because of
a little harmless ad-libbing here and there?'

His voice assumed a note of mocking sympathy that was deeply insulting.
'Not that I don't understand your concern, because I do,' he continued.
'I mean, you had it once. You were damned good, wrote brilliant
scripts. But let's face it, the brilliance has dimmed somewhat; the
razor-sharp wit's become rather dull and flat, quite frankly. Why else
do you suppose I ad-lib as I do? Really old chap, I don't have much
choice.'

Lou tried to concentrate. He felt unbelievably hot and his hand, when
he held the whisky bottle, shook as he again refilled the glass. And
all the time Leonard's voice seemed to be growing, getting bigger and
louder, filling the room and bouncing off the walls. Lou's head
throbbed unmercifully.

'You ought to thank me,' Leonard mocked, 'for ignoring your mediocre
little scripts and giving them polish and sparkle. Why do you think
Bernie wants us to top the bill as from next week? Why do the audiences
stamp and cheer and yell for more? Not because of your scripts, Lou.
It's because I cover for you, and the irony is that you get all the
credit. You should be damned grateful!'

Lou raised his head slowly, tried to focus his eyes on the figure in
the chair as it swayed, first one way and then the other until it had
virtually split in two. And both Leonards were smirking at him
now.

'Grateful? To an utter, unmitigated, talentless little shit like you?'
he responded thickly. 'Do me a favour! I picked you up out of the
gutter Leonard, and I can throw you back any time. Who needs
you?'

'Alas, you do,' Leonard taunted him. 'Just look at yourself. . . You're
pathetic. Drunk and pathetic. You couldn't run a whelk stall right now,
never mind a variety act. And frankly old chum, you're probably a
traffic hazard to boot.'

Lou shook his head in a vain effort to clear it, amazed even now at the
lengths to which Leonard would go to hurt and belittle him. But it
didn't matter. From now on he wouldn't have to listen, wouldn't be
patronised and no longer would he suffer Leonard's unbelievable
arrogance. There were other partners out there, any number of them, and
all greedy for a break. Replacing Leonard was no problem, but next time
he would choose with greater care. This time next year, in fact, they
could be headlining at the Palladium, because Lou's act was still the
best, and he knew it. Everyone knew it.

So what the hell. . . Leonard could sneer and taunt as much as he liked
because after tonight he was history.

The thought lifted Lou's spirits, he smiled contentedly to himself, and
in the certain knowledge that given enough rope Leonard would hang
himself, Lou happily picked up on the feed line.

'Go on then, I'll buy it. Why am I a traffic hazard?' he asked, knowing
the answer already.

'Well think about it, old chap,' Leonard chuckled. 'There you are,
standing at the traffic lights and all the cars screech to a halt. Half
an hour later they're all still standing there, waiting for your nose
to turn green!'

He paused for effect before exploding with unbridled, wicked laughter
that echoed around the shabby dressing room.

Lou just sat there, passive and stony-faced, biding his time.

'You don't find that amusing?' Leonard asked, impatient for some
response. 'No, perhaps not,' he sighed. 'But then, with a nose like
yours I wouldn't be laughing either!'

He erupted again into helpless merriment, and for a split second Lou
waited for the audience's reaction before realising there wouldn't be
any. They weren't on stage, but if they were Leonard would be getting
the upper hand again as he always did. And the laughs, just as he
always did.

'Oh, what a team we make, Lou,' Leonard roared. 'What a fantastic
team!'

A hatred such as Lou had never known welled up inside him, filling his
senses with a fierce white heat that washed over and then consumed him.
'Not any more, Leonard,' he murmured.

He rose from his seat without conscious effort, feeling light-headed
and only dimly aware that Leonard had started to plead with him. 'Lou,
old chap? What the hell are you doing? For pity's sake think what
you're doing!'

Lou registered the note of fear in his voice and felt infinitely
grateful for it. It was a real bonus. It spurred him on, and as though
some terrible, unseen force now controlled him he grabbed Leonard from
his chair. It took only one ferocious movement to heave him against the
wall. Leonard gave out a blood-chilling scream as his head connected
with solid brick and plaster, and even when his screams had finally
died away Lou smashed him again and again against the wall until his
anger was spent.

It was all over quite quickly and Lou, drained of all energy and
emotion, slumped back into his chair. Seconds later Bernie the theatre
manager burst in to the room, demanding to know what all the screaming
was about. The entire house could hear them, and it was frightening
everyone half to death. He stopped in mid sentence as his eyes
registered the bizarre scene in front of him.

'I've killed him,' Lou explained dully. He barely recognised the voice
but knew it had to be his own.

Bernie walked hesitantly across the room. He was an old trouper. He'd
been in the entertainment business a very long time and thought he'd
seen everything. But this was a first.

'Why Lou?' he asked. 'In God's name, what possessed you to do
this?'

Lou stared blankly at him, puzzled by the absurdity of the question.
'Because he just had to die,' he answered, as though explaining to a
fool, 'that's why.'

Bernie gazed down at the remains of Leonard, now lying in a grotesque
heap on the floor. The wooden dummy was smashed to smithereens,
destroyed almost beyond recognition and certainly beyond repair.

Lou started to laugh. The relief, the euphoria, the exquisite joy he
felt was almost too much. Suddenly a great weight had been lifted. For
the first time in years he was free and it felt bloody fantastic.
Giggling like a little kid he glanced at Bernie who, from the look on
his face, wasn't exactly sharing this magical moment. Even stranger,
Bernie suddenly hurried from the room muttering something about needing
to get help. What help? The police? Not that it mattered, because Lou
didn't give a toss any more, and Bernie could bring whoever he
damn-well liked.

'Free of the little bugger at last,' he sighed contentedly.

He grabbed the whisky bottle, had just started to pour the remaining
drops into his glass when his hand froze. From the other side of the
room, from the splintered heap on the floor came the sound of a low,
wicked chuckle.