Chapter 56.5: Rickety Split

Chapter 56.5: Rickety Split

Shrieking Shack Set, Leavesden. October 2010.

[Squatting on the familiar, creaky floorboards of the shrieking shack, I was stock still on my marker under a heavy layer of synthetic dust.

On cue, I pushed the door - hinge squeaking in eerie protest - open just ever so slightly wider to glimpse the waiting horror inside.

Ron and Hermione struggled not to hyperventilate behind me. The mics would pick up their laboured breathing better than I could, as the camera was pressed almost inside my ear. Angled directly alongside my line of sight as I focused on the pair of twitching legs beyond the threshold.

Voldemort had left, taking Nagini with him after slaughtering Snape.

I moved in. Each of my careful steps punctuated by a desperate dying gurgle.

Determination and conflict warred on my face, while Snape’s expression widened in surprise as I futilely used my hands to apply pressure to the spurting wound on his carotid. I pinched the surgical gash on the plastic skin of the squib bag, allowing a last spurt to stain the webs of my fingers in congealed red.

Alan, deep in Snape’s dying agony, rasped, “Ta-tak-take… it.” Tears - his memories - dripped down his cheeks.

Without looking away, I extended an arm out behind me, asking Hermione to conjure a container. She silently swished her wand, while I utilised a bit of sleight-of-hand. Dipping into a hidden pocket on the cuff of my oversized sleeve, I slipped out a flask and held it under Snape’s eyes to collect his final thoughts. 

“Look… at… me….”  

This was it. This was meant to be the ending of our final scene together. In a moment of inspiration, however, Alan took it further. 

Tremblingly, he raised one blood-soaked hand up to my face. Strength-failed, droopy digits dangled up towards my eyes. He didn’t have to say the line. Everyone knew who his true final words were for.

I had a momentary flashback to the scene we’d filmed years ago. The one where Harry gets caught out with the marauder’s map. Alan had done something similar then, too. My in-character response had been to flinch away and glare accusingly. This time, I allowed a red smear to steal across me. 

If memory serves right, in that instance, we’d stumbled into a blooper.

An insidious thought flitted through my mind. I had just the phrase on the tip of my tongue to delete this scene. But as much as I would’ve relished the extra time spent together - undoubtedly with curses being hurled at me, I bit my cheek and powered through. 

Snape’s muscles slackened, but the sticky residue kept his palm glued to my jaw even as he passed away while unnervingly staring at me until the end.]

“Cut! Print!” 

Even as applause erupted around us, Alan took a moment to bring himself out of character. His hand was still on my cheek as he blinked himself awake. I couldn’t resist my impulse any longer. “So, are we gonna kiss, or what?”

He peeled his hand away as if he was struck. He wasn’t. But I certainly was. The wallop that ruffled my nest into greater disarray was a good enough consolation prize versus time spent. 

–

Leavesden Studios, UK. October 2010.

I’d cry if I could. Would’ve also loved to whisper sweet nothings and somethings into the ears of cherished colleagues while they pounded me with hearty back-slaps during our departing embraces. Forget dessert, though. The only thing capable of exiting my mouth right now was the desert. Dry humour for you. 

Hair of the Dog might’ve been nice, but denied to me since Alfonso had wasted no time after the party to get right back to work. 

“Take care, mate - and I mean that. Don’t really want the next time I see you be ‘cuz you’re hopping off the top of a building, or something equally ludicrous.” Rupert was the latest in a long procession of Leavesden graduates, making their way permanently off set.

“How the hell else are you gonna know it’s actually me, then?” Slugging him on his arm, I broke our hug. “And besides, I don’t think you’re in any position to mother me. Remind me again who between us needed to borrow a spare set of threads from the other our first time out on the red carpet? Pot meet fleece jacket, much?”

“Mate… there’s a world of difference between cardigans and flipping car crashes!” 

“Not from where I, hopefully, won’t be standing someday.” 

He chuckled, shuffled away with an exasperated shake of his head, and tossed one last comment over his shoulder. “See you ‘round then, Bas. Not just in the news, I trust.”

I cupped my hands around my mouth to boom a rebuttal to his retreating backside. “Interviews don’t count either!”

A wry smile, a lazy wave, and he was gone.

“Being a… pest even to the end, are we?” A distinctive drawl drew me back into my wobbly plastic chair, perched opposite the even cheaper table the both of us were sharing our meal at. 

The furniture, too, was being packed away, consigning us to the bare essentials. Which in effect meant everything that was gonna be lobbed into the skip this time next week - much like the greasy snack stewing in front of Alan ought to be. The stench of burnt coffee and heavily buttered crumpets was only making my hangover induced dehydration worse. Not even my regular cup of cocoa was negating my nausea. 

“Fewer memories could be fonder to remember me by.” I addressed the sole partner I had left on set with me.

“Remind me to request a prescription for rohypnol, if that’s the case.” Actors say the darndest things, don’t they? Never realised Alan was acquainted with Bill Cosby.

“You’ll have to excuse me if I choose to never again share pudding with you.” I’d worked incredibly hard for my pristine posterior. Say no to nighty-night, and yes to butthole tight. 

“Well, that haunting image is certainly going to keep me up.” Felton announcing his arrival for his subsequent departure saw me stand, while Alan just huffed, flapped the newspaper, and disappeared behind its spread pages.

“Headed out?” We slapped each other five, curled our hands together, and brought ourselves in.

“Yes, indeed. My ride home should be here any minute. Just came round to say bye before I scoot out.” He pulled away and fixed the fold of my collar. “Also needed to make sure you weren’t cuddled up with a toilet bowl somewhere. You’ve gotta be in working shape to help me out like you said you would. But seeing you now, I’m reassured that you’ll stay the workaholic you are, even when no one’s looking.” 

Contrary to the chic and comfy travel clothes my contemporaries had been sporting all day, both Alan and I were still equipped in our character wardrobes. 

Being the purist he was, Alan had his wig and burly cloak to shield him from the chill. I wasn’t as committed, however. My iconic round specs had been swapped over for my burn notice shades to stave off (not non-existent sunshine, but) inquiries over the booze filled bags I had under my eyes. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. I’ll talk to Anita to see what strings she can pull.”

Tom heaved a sigh of relief at that. “Thanks, Bas. Seriously. I thought there’d be so many more opportunities at the other end of this, you know? I can’t discern whether it’s me or my representation, but I’ve really been struggling with roles beyond Draco. A cameo here or there, or movies that audiences don’t even stick through the trailers for. I just… am scared. Walking away with millions, yet still feeling empty-handed, isn’t what I expected, I guess.”

Felton wasn’t saying anything we hadn’t already discussed. I would’ve agreed to help, even if he’d merely mentioned it as a passing comment. I hated standing on formalities - almost as much as being on the receiving end of earnest emotional pleas. 

“Hey, damn sight better than me, at least.” I upturned all the lint stuck to the bottom of my empty pockets. 

Which, given the quirk on the edge of his lips, won in cheering him up. “There is that, isn’t there? Ring me whenever you get the time, Bas. You too, Alan. Take care.”

“You’ve talent, boy. Don’t squander it.” Rickman also encouraged Tom in his own gruff manner while sending him off. Then he turned his particular brand of tough love in my direction. “I’ve invested an inordinate sum of effort into your progress, Bas. To much success, I might add. You’ve become a phenomenal young actor; of which I witnessed conclusive proof today. Unfortunately, that horrid habit of false modesty hasn’t left you.” He folded the paper in half, half again into a quarter, then flopped it hard on the table with a flick of his wrist. “And I’d really rather that attitude take a fucking hike!”

Plastered, not just in the middle, but enveloping nearly the entire entertainment news section, was a slightly grainy image (ripped from the leaked footage) of the scrumming crew flinging me up in the air. 

The attached headline read ‘From Rags to Riches, to Rags Again! Critics Say It’s a PR Stunt - But Harry Potter Crew Members Know Better - Call it The Most Magical Day on Set. Bas Rhys’ Shocking 30-Million-Dollar Giveaway!’

I immediately flipped it over, face down. There was an ad for chapstick and hemorrhoid cream next to each other on the flip-side, that I found much more palatable. “No need to fret about that anymore. I promise - that specific high horse has been sent galloping up Everest.” Though the fact that it kept Rickman tethered to me as my sherpa was enticing. 

“… Good. Wear your achievements proudly. And most of all, in this… industry especially, focus on developing your acting, not more secrets.” I heeded his advice.

But speaking of, “there you are, Bas!” One of my deepest discretions came marching home. “I’ve been searching positively everywhere for you.” It was a rare occasion that Emma met me with that tone in her voice and her fists not stanced on her hips. Instead, she had her Gucci-booted feet spread shoulder-width apart, and her arms open even wider.

Taking the invitation for what it was - a demand - I strolled into her embrace for a last taste of her bosom and bythons in equal measure. 

“Hrgh!” was me suffocating.

“Krrk!” was my spine dislocating.

“Mmm!” was Emma doing the opposite of parting. “Alright, that’s enough of that.” She unsqueezed, letting my bones rattle back into position, which gave her ample time to reach into her pocket and slide something into my hand. 

It felt square and plastic. “Did you really laminate a post-it?” I peered down to find the note I’d passed her following her birthday debacle and my brief stint as a fireman. I could still see the crisp creases the paper had been folded into; and neither had the ‘do u lyk me?’ faded. There was, however, fresher ink circling the ‘yes’ option.

“Of course. I didn’t want it getting ruined. Which means I expect you to keep that safe!” She hopped up on her tippy-toes and planted a kiss squarely on my cheek. “Ask me that again someday.” 

“You bet.” I whispered in return.

Neither of us said goodbye as she swanned away. No point saying something I didn’t mean. I was re-adopting my original mantra, after all. Press interviews were going to be fun, weren’t they?

“Ah, to blossom… is to grow away from under the canopy and into the searing sun. You may burn, but you won’t wither beneath the shade of a mightier tree.” Alan suddenly launched into poetry. 

“That doesn’t sound like Shakespeare.”

“Probably because it isn’t anything so amateurish. As it happens, the words you’ve just had the pleasure of hearing are an Alan Rickman original.” He buffed his nails with his nose stuck in the air. Easier to inhale your own farts that way, I presume.

I leaned forward, joined my hands in prayer formation, rested my pursed lips on the tips of my fingers, and closed my eyes in concentration to fully fathom his genius. “Profound.”

“I’m known to be.” 

“Enlightening.” I gassed him up.

“My god given curse.” He let it rip.

“Absolute… rubbish.” Constricting my vocal chords, I lifted my eyebrows and imitated Alan’s signature speech to a T.

Which spurred him to chuck his coffee at me - that I artfully ducked. I think I’ll take that as my final farewell for the evening. 

–

Bas’ Caravan, Leavesden. October 2010.

Trudging into my trailer brought back visions of the first day I’d ever done so. Dust motes, the faint fragrance of previous occupancy, and little else.

I dragged my feet over to the bathroom. None of my regular toiletries were in there anymore, barring my preferred toothpaste, brush, and face wash. The rest were the mini bottles I’d stolen from hotels that were finally coming in handy.

Better get used to them now. They were going to be staples in my sundries for the next little while. 

A shower later, I stuffed my dirty clothes into the only unlocked duffle I’d kept. A suitcase and another cardboard box already held the rest of my belongings. 

I laid on my bed. It was too silent. The outside was bereft of the usual clamour of human habitation I’d unconsciously grown accustomed to.

My mind wandered.

The closing scene I’d just filmed - entirely by myself in frame - had been the shot immediately preceding Harry’s death at Voldemort’s wand. Where half-hooded under the invisibility cloak, I begged the resurrection stone phantoms for that last ounce of conviction. 

I recalled the dialogue. “Does it hurt?” Predictably, no answer came. I remained alone in my room, only my soft echo to keep me company. 

In the scene, Harry is told it’s ‘quicker than falling asleep’. So, I shut my eyes and let my breathing draw me deeper into the mattress.

It was time I put Harry to bed.

From tomorrow onwards, I wake up as Bas Rhys.