Chapter 56: Bonus Footage

Chapter 56: Bonus Footage

Leavesden Studios, UK. October 2010

“What’s my final body count?” My phrasing left a lot to be desired. Perhaps it was the recent stress accumulating within me without any outlet 

“Is regular office nomenclature truly so difficult to adopt? Just ask what the total tally is; you’re not an assassin.” You sure, David? My intention was very much to induce cardiac arrest. 

“The day I stoop low enough to subject myself to normality is the same day I start rockin’ up dressed like that!” I jerked my thumb at the third occupant sharing the table with us. The payroll executor. Thinning hairline, coke-bottle glasses, pin-stripe shirt, and a red tie stained with the mushy peas he’d had for lunch. Plenty of green going around recently. “No offence.”

“None taken, Mr Rhys. From this one meeting alone, you’ve proved you’re certifiably insane - and I admire you all the more for it.”

“Don’t know why I bothered. We’re on last days, anyway. Very well, no point squandering any more of our limited time.” David demonstrated his talent at multi-tasking as he simultaneously thumped his head with his fist, while twirling the index finger of his second hand to urge along our administrative aide. “Let’s have the breakdown, shall we?”

Readjusting his thick lenses, he scanned the page in front of him. “The full crew at Leavesden exclusively includes the following. First, as Bas labelled them, the bruiser tier: the set design and art department, one hundred and thirty-five people. The stunt team, one hundred and thirty-four people. The special effects and creatures department, thirty-eight people precisely. And finally, Leavesden’s in-house visual effects and animations department, discounting all third party contractors, comprises a hundred and seventy-five people. Totalling an even four hundred and eighty-two souls. You have allocated a little over half of the proceeds here.” He sifted through the sheaf of papers in his grip, licked his thumb, and teased out the next relevant page. “Next we have the blemish tier-”

“Must you call them that?” Heyman continued to take issue with my indexing.

How else would I refer to them? Bruiser tier are the heavy-hitters and tend to leave me black and blue, while blemish tier are masters at either making me look worse for wear - or far better than I think I am. À propos, no?” Seemed a few of Fedex’s idiosyncrasies had sunk in. Not surprising; we’d been spending an inordinate amount of time together recently. 

“M-may I?” Specs sought permission to continue number crunching.

“Please.” Which I readily provided.

“Right, so - blemish tier. Costume and wardrobe, seventy people. Makeup department, another hundred and thirty-four people. The editorial desk is another thirty-seven people. While sound mixing and music have a choir of sixty-four people. Three hundred and five people collectively sharing in an additional third of your proceeds. Leaving the badger tier,” because like Hufflepuff, they remain largely underground and forgotten, “with the remainder ten percent of your proceeds dispensed among the three hundred additional crew including runners, gaffers, tech, catering, electrical, location management, transport, and various production staff.” 

“Roughly eleven hundred people. Not a small number, by any means.” David summarised the score, as well as his uncertainty at my idea, given his dubious tone. He wasn’t discouraging anything. As the main signatory for the franchise over the last decade, he understood better than anyone the weight of the cheque I was about to sign. 

In the end - and at the end - he was looking out for my well-being one last time before I departed from under his purview. 

I appreciated it. “I’ve heard bigger.” But my mind, heart, and wallet were united in decision. 

As I stood, David dropped his head, nearly impaling his eyes on his thumbs. From up on high, I peered down at him. That tornado at the centre of his scalp where his hair grew was looking a little breezy these days. The salt and pepper sprinkled down from there to his beard compelled me to recognise just how much more seasoned he’d become. 

I reached for his sideburn, pinched a white strand between my nails, and yanked. 

“Gah- Bas!” 

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair, then.” Hopefully, without me plucking his patience, it’d grow back lush. “Gotta make sure the party plan meets my specifications.”

–

Like every year, at the conclusion of filming the overwhelming majority of the movie, we held a first draft screening of the rough cut.

Usually we’d roll out a monitor, set up foldable chairs, butter up some popcorn, and park ourselves for a couple of hours. Audio would be peaky, wires would be visible, and graphics would be goopy, grey slurries being thrown back and forth. Followed by a highlight reel of technical prowess production had submitted for award review. 

“Ay, no! Please? One more week!” Alfonso, however, wasn’t quite ready to subject himself to the review process. To his lament, the rewards were mine to give. “C’mon, Bas. Three days can suffice. It is enough time - we can quickly do the two scenes left for you to shoot, and add it into the final cut.”

Alfonso didn’t know whether to pull on the trolley holding the projector we were wheeling in, or pull out his curls. 

“Give it up, Alfonso.” Mark Day, our head editor, helped me pram along the player despite our director’s push back. “Cast quarters are going to be rather sparse soon. Today’s our only opportunity before everyone packs their luggage. And don’t think for one second I’m prepared to rush my process. I’ve still got months for the final cut. This first draft is just fine for this lot.”

Mark and I halted the cart where the optimal projection distance had been charted out earlier. “Also, we already set everything up here. I highly doubt the crew will be too happy if we ask them to bundle it back into storage.”

Spreading my arms, I gestured at the chosen and dressed venue surrounding us. 

We were in the warehouse used typically as the quidditch sound stage. One of the larger hangars we used, that also conveniently contained the fake pitch we substituted for the fields outdoors. 

Directly ahead of the projector Mark was fiddling with was an enormous white canvas in place of the goal posts. 

Various pilfered furnishings from distinct sets were scattered across the plastic lawn itself.

Carpets and chairs from the common rooms. Oversized pillows and plush beanbags from the divination class sets. Even the few presentable, but still body-beaten, crash mats were laid out for a soft landing. 

Relics of our recitals turned into a surprisingly swank storeroom stadium, capable of comfortably cradling whoever stepped foot into it. The mishmash memorial completed by winding wires leading to the sporadically placed speakers, as well as the mic jerry-rigged with duct-tape to the Hogwarts owl lectern right up front. 

Ideally, I would’ve preferred to hold this party in one of the many pool sets we had sitting around. But nobody wanted to take a dip in dropping autumn temperatures - not the least of which to hide away the pounds of winter weight most had already begun packing on. So much for skinny dipping. 

Also, ever since the underwater sequences had been finished, I’d been expressly forbidden from going anywhere wet outside my shower. Cowards.

“Well, then it appears I cannot say no.” Alfonso stopped cribbing and hunched over to help Mark set up the projector. “At least it is only us who will see my incomplete work.” 

“Sorry, chief. But that might not be entirely the case.” Alfonso worriedly followed my outstretched finger over to the corner I was pointing at. A tripod, two shifty people, and one handy-cam. “For DVD extras, and probably some PR, too.”

I remembered (and currently regretted) the funeral I’d conducted for my Tenga. Fedex, during that incident, had buried my scandal alongside my shame. She’d explained the details to me after the fact, following some pestering on my end. Recently, I’d become reacquainted with the masquerading BTS recruit from months past, who’d almost copped a scoop out of my… sterling reputation.

Successfully leaving Alfonso in another creative crisis, I abandoned them and approached team BTS. “We are ready to go at your behest, Bas.” Fedex perched one predatory claw on her pet ninja paparazzi’s shoulder. “That is correct, is it not?”

“S-sure is boss-lady.” Our handy but very un-dandy insurgent shivered under her carnivorous scrutiny.

Cam; he quite enjoyed that alias - as if Fed hadn’t already unearthed all of his skeletons. He seemed jittery and beleaguered in present company, but he’d been far more boisterous when I’d paid him his bribe and allowed him blanket immunity to sell today’s (carefully curated) programming to not only the highest bidder, but to anyone willing to buy. The sole caveat? “Good to hear, Fed. I hope this private affair we’re slated to have stays that way. Wouldn’t it just be awful if the grabby gossips got wind of it through any and every rag or online forum?”

“Most terrible, Bas. In reflection, it would make it difficult for the ladro - how you say, thief - to take credit for your accomplishments, no?” She dug her nails deeper into him, almost causing his knees to buckle while he whimpered. “Do not worry. I have things well in hand. Nothing will escape me.” The ‘that we haven’t planned for,’ echoed silently between us. 

Truth be told, I squirmed internally at having to tarnish what I was about to do. I headed for the nearest loo. Eager to rinse off the sleaze settling over my skin. There wasn’t anything to wash away, of course. But splashing cool water was soothing, regardless. 

Made me lament the loss of a pool party that much more.

Acting funny was my job. Yet, in whichever direction I turned my head, I witnessed someone else doing so instead. Anita and Jeff prime examples of it - though in wildly opposing extremes. The former would make velcro jealous of her clinginess; while the latter looked as if he was flapping further away. Too much other shit was happening besides.

I had an inkling of what was going on - unfortunately, not the full picture. These weren’t the days nor situations where I could just pull up a web search to find the solution. Questions I had needed to be solved through my merit. 

I was being buried. If I wanted an investigation, I’d bloody well have to exhume and examine myself. 

Dirty. That’s how I felt. I looked at my reflection - I refused to let the filth rise to the surface. Wet fingers slicked back my hair, smacked some rosiness across my cheeks, and swapped out the grim expression for a grin. 

Today wasn’t supposed to be about me, but my hand had been forced. 

I walked out of the bog and kicked in an extra step once I saw everyone trickling in for the night’s events. 

“Bas, there you are! We’re about ready.”

“Then let the show begin!” No one’s gonna get to bury the lede on me, anymore! 

–

Rumps quickly filtered into hodge-podge seats, and distilled beverages slid down gullets even quicker. 

Spirits clearly weren’t an issue, better get to it while wits were still available. “Alright you lot, settle down!” Everyone cringed as I yelled into the mic from behind the poultry themed podium. 

“Boo!”

“Get offa there!”

“Wahey!”

“Let’s get this party started!”

Oh, I’ll give them a reason to jeer; wait til the karaoke session after the screening. “A few words before we commence, and I’ll need help with that.” Emma and Rupert rolled off their respective lounging positions and joined me when I waved them over.

Rupert went first, both his beer bottle and mic inches away from his mouth. “It’s weird, honestly, being up here. Bit mad to be going muggle after all these years of magic - and I mean the type you’ve all helped create. I’m gonna miss it, you know? The early mornings and late nights, your ugly mugs,” Rupert slung his arm around my neck and dragged us in, “even the bloody makeup chair hemorrhoids!” Cheers erupted from the congregation of stylists. He saluted them with his beer, sloshing froth on to the floor. “So, yeah, that’s about it, really. Can’t say more for fear of spilling like that just did. Thanks for everything and if any of you ever need a free ice cream, feel free to knock on my truck!”

Whoops and hollers shouted out from the gallery as Rupert made his goodbye. 

Emma stepped in next. Her fingers desperately twined with mine as she held me beside her. Now she’s brave enough to hold my hand in public. “When I walked onto this set for the first time, I was just a little girl with bushy hair, an oversized uniform, and a lot of opinions. Not much has changed, really.” Chuckles rippled out from the crowd, but rather than emboldening her, Emma’s slight shivers and the increased strength of her grip on mine belied her growing emotion. “I so vividly remember my dreams from back then; every night I went to bed I saw my family’s faces back home. And since then, we’ve spent more time together than I have with them over the years.” Her voice thickened. She was threatening to spill, too. Both tears and sweat from her perpetually soaked palms. With a squelch, I squeezed tight to comfort her. She shot me a glistening smile and returned to her warbling speech. “Now, I must deal with the prospect of waking up in my actual bed at home, with fleeting thoughts of you all drifting through my mind. Some faces especially,” the dainty little bones in my digits audibly cracked, “will remain forever unforgettable!”

“Emma!”

“We love you, too!”

The cries of adoration that streamed out might for lesser beings mean a tough act to follow. But, as I released myself from Emma, and raised my arms in the universal sign to calm down, I held zero worry. 

I was about to stop the show. “Yes, yes. Very nice. I’ll miss you all, too!” I paused.

“Wha-? Tha’s it?”

“C’mon, Bas!”

“Boo!”

“You can do better than that!”

“What?” I shrugged my shoulders and feigned confusion. “What more do you want me to say?” I cast a side-eye to ensure there was a red dot trained on me. I had plenty left in my speech. “Okay, okay, let me think. Hmm. I guess, if anything, I’m really gonna miss my paycheck.” Jovial protests suddenly staggered into bewildered murmurs. “It’s true! You know how much I got paid for this last film alone? Thirty million USD - or in the region of nineteen-and-a-half million British pounds. It’s so much nosh, I almost don’t know how to spend it all.” No one was celebrating anymore. All I could hear were waspish whispers coupled with the sight of hurt and offense. Even Emma and Rupert were staring at me as if I’d been replaced by an evil twin. “Almost.” So, I smirked like one. “There’s only one way I could conceivably blow it all. I’m giving every last penny to you.”

Pin-drop silence. A moment in which they registered my proclamation. Then noise. Enough to shake the sheet metal rafters of the roof. I gripped the mic and shouted back with all the decibels I had in my body. “Homeless! That’s what I’m poised to be soon! And not just because I’m going to have to vacate the caravan I’ve spent half my life in! You know those bus bench adverts marketing’s spent an unreasonable amount of money on? Next time any of you encounter me, you’re liable to see me sleeping beneath one of those. But, y’know what? Won’t deter me for a damn moment!” 

“Are you serious?”

“I can’t accept that!”

“Have you lost your mind, Bas?”

“Yes, I am Yes, you will. No, I haven’t. The only thing I’m losing is a bit of money - and even then, not really.” In the grand scheme of things, it meant little. A year’s salary at best for each person - including me. But it was the least and best I could do.

They were calling me mad. Made me feel like it, too. 

Hugs and tugs swaddled me in a fleshy, weepy, and oddly muscly straight jacket. “My career, my life, my legacy is owed to each and everyone of you. One thing I haven’t lost is the plot; I promise you that!” 

I reckon the crew weren’t going to be the only ones decrying my sanity - though others may say it with far less fondness. ‘Wheat to chaff’, ‘pearls to swine’, was without a doubt what the executive suite would spit out about my actions with bitter distaste. But fuck ‘em, and butt-fuck ‘em too, while you’re at it! Here on out, I was gonna do what I wanted to, and nothing less!

Someone hauled me off my feet, ripped the mic away from my hands, and tossed me bodily into the air. At the apex of my flight, when I knew I was going to fall back down to earth, I expected that sense of emptiness to bubble up in my guts like it did every time I performed a stunt. Not this time, though. I fell, but swifter than I could finish blinking, sturdy hands launched me back up. The ceiling swallowed my vision. Empirically, I knew I was nowhere close to it. Still, I’d be just a hair’s breadth away from touching it, if only I reached out. And even if I didn’t touch it this time - I was sent flying again - I need only try once more. 

The hip-hip-hoorays came to a tumbling end when I was set down on stumbling feet. A couple of familiar warm bodies pressed themselves under my arms, trying to ensure I didn’t lose my lunch. Too bad for them; I was dead-set on doing just that. “Back, you animals! Back!” As I shooed everyone back to their seats, I swiped a bottle of something from someone and chugged it down. 

Hollers followed every gulp I took in full view until I sculled it. The projector flickered to life, the red dot of the handy-cam blinked steadily, and the film cast itself over my face and torso. “I’ve only just begun!”