Chapter 50: Guantanamera

Chapter 50: Guantanamera

Leavesden Studio, UK. October 2009.

The rozzers, the fuzz, the police - call them what you want, had as many famous epithets (and epithets) as they did sayings. ‘Freeze!’ ‘Get on the floor, let me see those hands!’ ‘Bend and spread.’ The list went on.

One, in particular, that struck me at this moment was: ‘A culprit always returns to the scene of the crime.’ I was neither a culprit nor had I committed any crime. Yet, the world and whispers around me conspired to disabuse me of any notion I held of innocence. The only part of the phrase that rang true, though, was returning. Because I’d be filming here again soon, come hell or high water - both of which were distinct possibilities, given very recent circumstances. 

Blue light streamed down from overhead, as red beamed back and forth in my vision. I squinted in discomfort as I tried to stymie the burning white light piercing through the thin, pink layer of skin of my eyelid. 

The med tech squatted in front of me was barely visible through the flashing red and blue my world had devolved into. “Try to keep your eyes open, Bas. Follow the torch as best you can. I need to check for signs of impairment or neurological damage.”

“Far, far, far too late for that! Brain dead as he bloody well is!” Hey… she stole my joke. Is that how it’s gonna be? Almost died one measly time and people already tried to fit into my leftover loafers. Emma’s seething voice was obvious to me, and the furthest thing from soothing.

In an effort to assuage my soaked self esteem, most of the onlookers who’d watched my masterful performance as a water fountain had kindly dispersed while I got my check-up. Unfortunately, as quickly as the crew fled to unknown parts, they disseminated the hot gossip of my near death experience even quicker. It seemed I just couldn’t stop springing leaks.

The spread of this intel meant that my personal space was being invaded by entirely different, and more powerful, jurisdictions. “Follow my finger. Look left.” Following the order, I caught Emma at the very edge of my peripheral vision. White-knuckled fists clawed at the fabric of her trousers. Her hands were shaking with effort as she physically held herself back from launching at me. The jury was still out whether she was itching to wring my neck, or pat me down to reassure herself. My very own female body inspector. 

She didn’t have the uniform on, though. The absolute state of her - clips and foil in her hair, paper bib tucked into the collar of her civvie clothes - suggested that she was mid make-up session before she arrived on scene. “I’m fine.” Fedex had left me alone for a moment so that she could pull the car round for us to make our way to the nearest clinic. No point calling the NHS or emergency services, my gravestone would be overrun with weeds by the time they got here. Her absence resulted in a surge of bravery. “Let’s not waste anymore time and go again.” Dodging around the doc’s finger, I stood up, shucked off the towel draped across my shoulder, and bounced on my feet - to the protest of my creaky ribs - to get the blood flowing. 

“Ha! So you really have utterly lost your mind!” Her angry scoff wasn’t enough to hide the undercurrent of worry.

“Can’t lose what you never had in the first place.” So, I did what I do best; deflect with humour.

“Oh, shut up!” I guess I have the right to remain silent.

“As admirable as your attitude is, Bas. I’m afraid there’s frankly a zero percent chance we risk another incident. We’ll be rescheduling any action heavy scenes until we can be certain that we won’t experience another blackout. I’ve already ordered everyone to take some time off; hopefully a long weekend will calm nerves down. Least of all, you, I suspect; given your prior appointments. But some rest is better than none. Regardless, once you return, we’ll be postponing the water sequence for something else. Hopefully something to help the two of you kiss and make up.” David Heyman brought his supervisor powers to bear.

“Wha-!? The kissing scene?” For Ron’s horcrux induced nightmare. “This better be a closed set, David. I don’t want anyone except those absolutely necessary there.” Emma rounded on Heyman.

“That was alway the plan.” 

“How’s that fair? Everyone was there for all of my smooch scenes!” Some might erroneously assume I was railing against a perceived double standard. “We can’t deny them their right to witness the rest either,” they’d be wrong. 

“Where’s Federica? Because you seriously need your head checked.” Metaphorical and literal claws came out again. I gently snagged her wrists while she cuffed mine. 

My gaze was steady and strong while her’s swam all across my face. Both of us reassuring her I hadn’t been forgotten at the bottom of that pool.

Her death grip loosened, but she remained tense, so I slid up her arms and unwound the knots she’d tied herself into. Emma’s hands finally fell to the side, leaving only the clammy remnants of her nervous grip on my forearms. Her sweaty response reminded me that I just had to hassle her. “I know the doc stole my first kiss,” on account of the CPR, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll cherish our forthcoming one any less.”

She shook me off, shot me a fierce look (far more palatable than her fright), and stomped away. “You’re an arsehole, Bas Rhys!”

–

Fedex’s Caravan, Leavesden. October 2009.

I was a fool to think my incarceration would stop there.

Not long after my round-trip to the hospital, I was woken up by Anita disembarking her one-way flight from Cali. I’d barely gotten a full night’s rest before I was told to rise and shine. Or, relative to the mood Anita was in, rise and brine because there was a niggling suspicion in the back of my head that she wanted to waterboard me. 

The day was still coloured dark. If I looked out the window, the sky would be purple. Schwip, schwip. Not that Fedex was letting me. Methodically, she went around her cabin and shut every door, locked each window, and pulled all the curtains closed. Nobody gets in, nobody goes out, nobody sees what’s going on. 

Anita, meanwhile, had me cornered at one end of my dining booth. “What’s the prognosis? Contusions? Concussions?” She didn’t even bother looking my way as she flipped through the pages of my medical report. Her presence alone kept me pinned to my seat, twiddling my thumbs in contrition.

“It is as the report says, no? A clear bill of health.” And a fat one too. Fedex ensured they put me through every scan that had a three letter abbreviation in front of it. 

“Good…” she ruffled through the last few pages, “that’s a relief,” and then stared deep into my eyes. A little too deep, in all honesty. I’d have thought I was back underwater, if it wasn’t for the heat she was projecting. “What exactly do you have to say for yourself?”

Mostly that it wasn’t my fault for once. But I knew better than to flap my gob and demand justice. This wasn’t an interrogation, it was a forgone conclusion. “I ain’t talking. You won’t get a word out of me. Not one syllable! Uh-uh. No way, no how. Lawyer! I want a lawyer! Anita, get on that.”

“You’re talking right now, idiot.” She rushed to her feet, snatched the report, and rolled it into a billy club. This did not bode well. “Idiot, idiot, idiot!”

“Help!” Police brutality! I raised one arm to block Anita’s rain of blows, while the other stretched out desperately for my partner in crime, Fedex.

Betrayal was all I received. “Signora Specter has you handled. I do not think you would survive il duetto if I joined the fray.”

I should’ve known with these seedy Hollywood types. One turns a blind eye while the other tries to kneecap me. Stabbed in the back, the biceps, and even the butt as I squirmed to get away. Anywhere except the head. Even in the midst of my pummelling, Anita was careful to avoid my face; knowing full well how to hide the evidence of her savagery while maintaining our collective money making potential. 

Pretty generous, all things considered.

Taekwondo had prepared me for this; time to apply it judiciously. Taking advantage of her tackle, I grappled, wrapped my arms around her flailing limbs, and locked her in.

“Idiot!”

“I’m fine.”

“Idiot!”

“I’m fine.”

My groundwork brought Anita back down to earth. Her tantrum transformed into great, big honking tears. 

I took a deep breath, letting her hear my heartbeat through the ear she had pressed tightly on my chest. Neither of us continued wriggling. I just rubbed her back until her shuddering calmed down. Sniff. “Y-you’re creasing my dress. It’s Vera Wang - you owe me a new one.” 

“Sure, but you also owe me a new scruffy shirt.” My current fave sleepwear was entirely slathered in snot. “I’ll need something to wear this weekend, won’t I?”

“Forget all that! I’m cancelling all your appearances and meetings. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

“C’mon, you’re well aware we can’t do that.” 

“Ugh, I can’t even look at you! I’m never letting you out of my sight!” Get a grip, woman! 

She squeezed my torso. “Ngh!” Wrong grip to get. My poor ribs. 

As I laid flat on my back with Anita latched on to me, Fedex leaned over and brushed a stray bang away with a single finger. My consigliere needed to ensure she had my full focus - even upside down. “You are not immortal. Simply a man, Bas Rhys.”

–

Bas’ Caravan, Leavesden. October 2009.

My prison term was ending. Owing to my (temporary) good behaviour, I was even granted visitation rights. 

“I’m a big boy now, Mrs Stephens. I can pack my own luggage.” Truth be told, her arrival had me about as antsy as I could get. By far, I assumed she’d have the most explosive reaction of them all. Fortunately, however, my dread was misplaced. 

From the time I picked her up from the train station, the long drive back to the studio, and the discussion we had detailing my newest adventure back in the RV, Mrs Stephens had been nothing but cool, calm, and composed. 

Not a frazzled hair out of place, no spikey decibels peaking through her speech; just a handful of poignant questions and a stiff nod of acceptance. 

Now here she was, helping me pack for my brief business jaunt to LA. “Well, we wouldn’t want you missing anything, would we, dear?” Like old times. 

It’d been years since I’d begun towering over her, so it was slightly uncomfortable to hunch my spine to rest my head by hers. But that warm, cheek-to-cheek comfort made it worth it. 

T-shirts, trousers, socks, boxers - no stone left unturned, and no piece of apparel left unfolded. It was… quite a lot, actually. Did she raid my entire cupboard? “Erm, Mrs Stephens… don’t you think you’re packing a little too much? I’m only going to be gone for a couple of days.”

“Gone?” She craned her neck to face me. Her brow furrowed; pure confusion plastered on her face. 

“Yeah… I mean, that’s what the suitcase is for. There’s my premiere and an audition I have to attend.” 

She huffed and returned to stuffing more clothes into my duffle. “Don’t act the duffer,” I wasn’t acting, “we both know you’re not, despite how much you may try to play it up. I haven’t come all the way here just to wave you off at the airport. My presence here is for one reason, and one reason alone: to toss you and all your belongings on the next train back to Cardiff.”

“Uh-? Buh, ah-! Er…” That’s all, folks! My latest stunt had driven my beloved matron loony. “Mrs Stephens, I-”

“You what?” she snapped, cutting me off before I could even stutter out a half coherent response. “You’ve got a lovely little excuse ready, have you? ‘Oh, I’m fine, Mrs Stephens. I’ve only nearly died this time! Cardiopulmonary resuscitation? No, no, no Mrs Stephens, you’re mistaken. CPR stands for continued public relations’,” damn - that’s a good one. “No! You’ve gone gallivanting as much as I can stand, and more besides. There hasn’t been a whim of yours that I haven’t allowed. But I’ve had enough! Year after year, it’s one thing after another. Broken limbs, I said nothing. Crashed cars, I said nothing. Starving yourself, I said nothing. You will hear me now, because I refuse to hear about the next bloody disaster!” 

Every instinct told me to embrace her, but I resisted. She was already too wrapped up. I didn’t need to confine her any further. She needed to let it all out. I clasped her hands between mine instead, stopping them from failing to fold the same crumpled pair of trousers for a third time. “Tan tro nesa. Remember that?”

“How dare you think I would ever forget?” She still kept that bad habit of looking away from me. I didn’t mind. Meant I could also retain my bad habit of smiling till my face hurt.

“Since I can’t exploit dementia yet, I’ll not fib. This won’t be the last time I put myself in unreasonable amounts of danger. It’s my job - my life, really. And I’m living it exactly as I want to.” Her hands shivered, but I held firm in my honesty. “I can’t promise that I’ll always be safe or unhurt, but I’ll always come back to you.”

“But one day, you won’t be able to make that promise anymore. One day, you won’t come back.”

My hands squashed her’s tighter. “Never goodbye - it’s until next time.”

“Whatever you do,” her wet voice dripped with emotion, “just come home! Please. You are my boy, Bas Rhys.”