Stardust(192)

Ben looked up. The quiet had become physical again, something you could feel. He heard Dieter moving, then saw the ceiling get lighter. More lights in the nightclub, Dieter now obviously at the central switches near the stack of camera cases. Ben looked at Japan. Nothing else on this part of the stage, not even a spool of cable. A few footsteps, Dieter exploring. Don’t panic. He ducked down and slipped between the trestles, a hiding place. But all Dieter would have to do was shine a light underneath, catch Ben’s eyes. He felt above him. The whole frame was supported by slats lying across the trestles, nailed in place to prevent wobbling. The diorama itself was like an attic crawl space—if you managed to climb into it, you could lie on the slats, off the floor. Japan over your head.

The spaces were irregular. Ben tried to wedge up into one, but couldn’t get through. He tried to remember the shape, where the load-bearing sections would be. Think of it as a box spring, the springs clustered, not even. He moved toward the center, where the plaster would rise highest, allowing more wiggle room. A mountain range. If it worked anywhere, it would work here. He put his head through, then grabbed two of the slats to pull the rest of him up. His shirt caught, then freed itself with a tug. His feet were off the floor, another push with his elbows, then inching forward over the empty space onto another slat, trying to distribute his weight, slat, space, slat, space.

His head bumped into wood. Of course there’d be cross struts. His feet were still dangling, but he managed to draw them up a little, so that only his toes dropped over the slat. There was nowhere else to go, his body suspended now, his hands clutching hard to the slat on either side. The injured hand was still throbbing, and he tried to relax its grip. Maybe a bone had been smashed, shooting out darts of pain. But it wouldn’t be much longer. Dieter would check the sound stage, then inevitably be drawn back to the door and out, the logical escape. Just try to stop breathing. Become, literally, part of the woodwork.

The floor beneath him got lighter. Dieter must have found more switches. These would be the utility lights above the catwalks, making the stage visible while the gaffers arranged the set lights on the rigging. The light would come straight down through the open ceiling, flat, not strong enough to make shadows. Ben clenched his hand on the slat again. Keep still. Footsteps on the other side of the dividing wall, a shout, as if Dieter were testing the echo effect. Over his head, lights were shining down on the simulated hills. It occurred to Ben, a surreal idea, that his body was under Hiroshima.

“Can you hear me?”

The voice seemed nearer. Ben held his breath. The slats might creak if he moved. In the silence, there was a sound so small it might be inside his head, light as a bubble popping, no, a drip, an invisible tap, a single bead of water. He looked down. Not invisible. A red dot on the floor, now another. Frantic, he looked at his hand, blood seeping, a line moving down off the side, then falling. He relaxed his grip, turning his hand. The line changed course but kept flowing down, another drip. There was nowhere to move the hand without shifting his weight. Impossible. But you’d have to be on top of it to hear. And now it fell on the previous drip, muffled, not like a fresh drop on the floor. He stared at the hand, willing it to stop.

“It’s very foolish.” Dieter’s voice again, moving with him through the door, flicking on more lights.

Ben looked down. A tiny puddle, not a river. But still dripping, a little more quickly. Dieter had stopped, probably trying to figure out the map. Another minute, fascinated, like any set visitor.

“You know I have to do this,” he shouted finally. “It’s nothing to do with me.” His voice lower, reasonable. What everyone thought, dropping bombs, firing into streets. Years of it, something that couldn’t be helped. “You don’t use the door,” he said, loud again, not sure where Ben was. “Hide and seek. Shall I tell you my plan? It’s good—no bullets to explain.” He waited, as if expecting an answer back. Ben stared at the blood. “These places. They should clean up. Did you see the paint cans? Thinners. A hazard. One match. Well, a few, to make it all go at once. The door locked. It’s a good idea, don’t you think? A pity. A whole building for this. And such a way to die. To burn. What they say will happen in hell, it’s so terrible. Much easier, a bullet. Quicker. You decide. One or the other. Are you listening?”

Another silence, Ben watching the droplets on the floor.

“I know what you’re thinking. The fool leaves, I make an alarm. Ben. Not such a fool. It’s easy to disable. I’m a good mechanic, did you know that? No alarm. The door locked. Yes, they see the light maybe. But paint makes so much smoke. You know most people die from smoke in a fire. Before they burn. So by the time— Are you listening?”