Work Text:
They met in a dressing room. Overheads low, fluorescent bulbs burning yellow-orange and throwing shadows everywhere. His director was in the chair, waiting for him.
'Hello. You're the director, right?'
The man didn't turn around. Newspaper in his lap rustled as he looked up into the mirror, haloed in fog. Wake should've expected it, maybe, but it was a punch to the gut, seeing his own face reflected twice. An oily smile crawled into the version in the mirror. 'Pleasure to meet you, Mr Wake.' The man got up and turned, hand outstretched, teeth flashing. 'Thomas Zane. I work for Dark Place Pictures, and we're gonna get your manuscript up on that silver screen, Mr Wake.'
Wake shook without thinking, smiled by reflex. Studied his director with some trepidation. His features were the same as Wake's, but not much else - hair worn in a style Wake had only seen in period TV, thick sideburns. God-awful soul patch. Big mauve-tinted glasses, puffy black leather jacket over a patterned shirt, dark leather cowboy boots stitched with a psychedelic pattern in yellow and purple. Very... seventies? 'Sounds good.'
'Great! Great,' his director said, slinging an arm around Wake's shoulder. 'Well now, if you'll come with me. I want you to get a look at the sets before we start using 'em.' His voice was middling deep, accent floating between California and Texas and sounding affected both ways. It sounded familiar. Conjured vague memories of a voice heard through the thick metal of a diving suit. 'If you'll just come this way, Mr Wake.'
Zane oozed. Wake had met men like him before in the entertainment business. Executives, marketers, people trying to sell him on something. He kept up a steady patter as he ushered Wake from the dressing room to a studio that couldn't exist where it did, through a hotel ballroom and the spare, dark square of Casey's office set up on a soundstage, looking as if it had been cut from Wake's head. 'How do you like it, Mr Wake?'
'It's perfect.' He meant it. 'Yeah, it's perfect. I can't wait to get started, Mr Zane.'
'Oh, please. Tom.' Zane clapped him on the shoulder and laughed, flashed his teeth again. He should've had a gold tooth, Wake thought. Complete the look. 'Call me Tom, Mr Wake.'
'Alan.'
'Alan!' Another slap of the shoulder. Wake regretted that already. 'Well, it's really an honour, Mr Wake. I know we're gonna do some good work together. You call me any time, day or night,' pulling a business card from his pocket and slipping it into Wake's, 'I'll pick up.' A wink, a click of the tongue, more teeth. 'Bring you a pick-me-up, too, if you want. I've got hook-ups all over.'
Zane's rings glittered in the studio light. Wake shook his head. 'I try to stay away from the heavy stuff nowadays, but thanks.'
'You're welcome.' Zane sniffed. 'Might head back and take a breather myself before we get started, huh?' Steel toe-caps winked silver as he walked away, smiling at Wake over his shoulder. 'Show on the road in ten, Mr Wake.'
*
The way they worked was strange, though no stranger than anything else in the Dark Place. Wake came to the set in the 'mornings', sat in a chair, scribbled changes on the script, drank sugary coffee. He never saw a single second of film shot. And yet it was shot - Zane would show him the unedited dailies afterwards. It was as if the work was being done in the seconds he looked away and down at the page.
Wake didn't ask. Didn't want to disturb the equilibrium. But it was eerie watching the dailies back, seeing footage of things that had been apparently filmed metres from where Wake sat. The actors, their features blurred into indeterminacy by some quirk of the screen, played their roles to near-perfection. Zane was merciless in chewing them out for the slightest mistake; Wake flinched the first time he heard his voice ringing out across the set, deepening to a smoker's rasp. It had been in an early scene: a woman in an indigo blouse patting her hair, a blonde chignon, and saying something to the suited man playing Alex Casey.
The Casey actor gave his next line. Flat. 'Flat!' Zane shouting from offscreen. As if he'd heard Wake's thought and was repeating it. 'Mother of God, what am I paying you for?'
The actor mumbled something. Zane's voice took another tone, less harsh, cajoling. The voice of a reasonable man. 'Listen, kid. One more take, and we'll be out to lunch either way. I'll bring you something. What do you like? I'll get something sent up. My tab. Just do the damn take. Just like the page says.'
More mumbling. Steel in Zane's voice. 'You want out? You read your contract? You see an exit clause?'
The actor shrugged helplessly.
'That's damn right. So do it again.'
A creaking noise, like Zane was settling back in his chair. Then the same noise, but less tinny - Zane leaning forward from where he sat in reality, perched near Wake, watching him watch. He was always nearby. Always close at hand. 'I keep telling 'em to stick to the script,' Zane had said. 'See?'
He had. He did. Sometimes he recognised his own script edits as the commands Zane gave. He wasn't sure he liked that. Didn't like his words coming from Zane, as if he were God and Zane his mouthpiece. But then it would be followed by the slash of a clapboard, and the scene would be done again, done right, done just the way Wake had written it.
This was his Casey adaptation. The one he wished he could've made. That, he liked.
*
'Mornings' were shoots; 'evenings' they spent closeted in the dressing room discussing edits, trading scraps of footage and pages of script back and forth. Wake said yes to most of what Zane showed him, and Zane said yes to everything Wake flipped back at him, energy frenzied, frequently digging in his pockets for a snort or swig of things Wake refused. He drank at irregular intervals from a palm-sized hip flask worked with an angel in silver.
When they did disagree, Zane never pressed. He came at Wake sideways sometimes, slithered under his arguments in familiar corporate-speak, but he was always willing to compromise in the end, always ready to slink out to his unseen edit suite and return with something preserving Wake's original vision. There was only one thing he refused to budge on, despite Wake's initial reluctance: a cameo.
'Listen, Alan, people love it. They love it. Stephen King did it, hey - you don't even have to say anything. Don't even have to turn around.' Zane talked fast, used his hands; they hovered near Wake's, threatening to seize Wake's wrists to make his gestures even more emphatic. 'It's special for them. They like to see the guy who made it all happen.'
'Shouldn't you be in it, then? You're the one directing.'
'Hey, I'm no auteur. I'm not the attraction here,' Zane said, winking. 'They're comin' for you, not me. I didn't write Alex Casey.'
Wake hesitated. 'You know it'll work without me in it, right,' he said. Treading uncertainly. He and Zane had never discussed what they were doing besides making a film, what was supposed to happen afterwards. 'The Dark Place isn't... it's not literal like that.'
'You one hundred percent certain about that? Stake your life on it?' Zane's eyes glinted. The dressing room mirror reflected the two of them seated close together, doubled them into a quartet. 'Now, I do think you're right, Mr Wake, but I like to manage my risk. And it'll add some broad market appeal, like I said.'
Persuasive argument. It unsettled Wake, rustled up enough doubt to make him sigh, then laugh. 'Okay. Okay, sure. Put me in the back somewhere.'
Zane leapt out of his chair. Snapped his fingers, clapped his hands, feinted as if to haul Wake up and drape an arm around his shoulders. He'd stopped doing that so much, maybe sensing that Wake hated that sort of macho back-slapping. 'That's the spirit, Alan! Come on, let's get it in the can.'
He was out of the dressing room before Wake could veto him. Left alone, Wake could almost believe he hadn't been there at all, that the mélange of papers and reels scattered over the table was his and only his.
Wake grimaced. He eased himself up and trailed down the hall to the studio set, different already than it had been mere hours before. Zane was almost invisible behind a camera, his dark leather jacket blending in with the equipment, until Wake heard him calling out instructions: 'We'll go with something simple, yeah? Rearrange some stuff behind the counter. Then you turn and show your mug for a second and smile for me. Nothin' to it.'
'Right,' Wake muttered, and glanced at the set-up: a bookstore counter, a corner dressed with shelves of untitled leather hardbacks and the strong smell of varnish. Glanced back sharply when Zane's fingers snagged on his sleeve, tugging it out; Zane's hand pulled at his tie, tightening it. Wake hadn't even seen him get close. 'Hey, hey, I can-'
'No sweat,' Zane said. He brushed off the front of Wake's jacket, reached in to straighten his collar with a brisk twist. Hard, sharp movements. Wake felt wrongfooted, like one of Zane's hapless actors. His cheeks burned; he tamped down on a surge of anger. 'I gotcha. When you're ready, Alan.'
They filmed a few takes. Wake turned, half-smiled wordlessly, rotated back, did it again. Watched Zane watch him, slouched on one hip, stroking his moustache. His accent drifted south every time he called another take. Wake thought about what he'd said earlier. What would Zane do, when this was over? If - when they succeeded. Wake didn't want to ask. Had never considered it before. When Wake had arrived here - when Wake had first encountered the Dark Presence - Zane, he hadn't seemed to want to escape. The old Zane - the other Zane-
'One more,' Zane barked.
Wake said, 'I think that's enough.' He realised a second later that he'd snapped it, that his nails were digging into his palms under the counter. Zane's easy grin disappeared briefly, gave way to the flint-eyed director face he wore on set. Reminded Wake uncannily of the director of the third Casey movie, the one after they'd definitively kicked Wake out of all credits except Based on a novel by.
He swallowed. Remembered that might be his fault. His memories, bleeding through to colour the shape of his director.
'Whatever you say, Mr Wake,' Zane said, and smiled.
*
He dreamed of floating in a dark place. Floating with water all around him, though he could still breathe. A solidness rose up underneath him: cool, smooth arms the breadth of tree branches holding him up. Pincers opened and closed at the corner of his eye like the mouths of gaping fish, and - there was a light. A blessed, blissful light.
You, Wake said. Relief rinsed through him like ink in water.
Harsh breathing. He pirouetted slowly in the soft light, turning in the diver's arms so he could see its helmet, the beams emanating from its quartet of faceplates. Are you here to help me? Moisture beaded on the faceplate closest to him; he wiped it away. Another layer of condensation replaced it immediately.
Alan.
He smoothed his hand over the diver's helmet again. Again, it misted over. I could use a manuscript page right now.
Don't you remember? The diver's voice, distorted, deadened by the metal suit. Don't you remember what you did to me?
I-
The tick-tick-tick of a dial clicking.
Salty taste on his lips, rough tweed in his mouth. Wake raised his head off his elbows. Where...? His mind prompted him with a flash of Zane taking a mouthful from his hip flask, his throat bobbing; another flash of Wake accepting a drink and a tour, a chance to see the edit suite. This was it, under his head. Black counter-top flecked with tiny chips of silver. The hot smell of electricity.
He looked blearily to his right, and wished he hadn't.
Scenes smeared and bled together on the three monitors, smudges of footage washing into and over each other like tides. Voices on tape blended into a low murmur that raised the hair on his arms. Whispering in his ears rewound and played backwards. Static underneath everything, and in the middle of it, a man made of static. Zane, his jacket shed to reveal a navy shirt speckled with white. Turning dials. Cutting, balancing, splicing with an automaton's single-minded focus.
It was like standing behind himself at the typewriter. It made Wake nauseous. His hands trembled; Zane's hands shook as they moved, tapped the air as if pulled by strings. Wake made a fist. Zane, without pausing, made a fist.
Wake's vision blurred. He forced his eyes shut. Dreaming. He was still dreaming. He told himself that, falling asleep again.
*
And then it was finished.
Their film. Ready to be screened at the theatre that Wake had never noticed occupied the back half of the studio block. There were no drive-ins in the real New York City, not anymore, but here it was. Black gravel, single dim grey screen the size of a house, tiny brick hut of a projection booth that Zane had hustled him through from a passage that connected to the dressing room.
The rain had let up. That had to be a good sign.
He stood outside, fiddling with his tie, until Zane joined him in front of the screen. 'Reel's in,' he said, giving Wake a thumbs-up. 'We should've driven, huh? No seats.'
Wake shrugged, smiled. It felt right to stand. If this worked, he'd be swimming through the final scene. He could almost taste it. The muddy water in his mouth. The air above the lake, cold enough to burn his throat.
'Smoke?'
He started. Zane was close, the tips of his steel-toed boots edging into Wake's personal space. 'Yeah. Sure. Why not?' It was the end, after all.
Zane removed two cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans. The ring on his middle finger gleamed in the gloom as he handed Wake one, lit his own with an ugly silver lighter shaped like a trout that he salvaged from the same pocket. 'No,' he said when Wake reached for it. 'Here,' and he leaned forward, cigarette clamped between his teeth, and touched the glowing end to the one in Wake's mouth. Zane cupped his hand around their cigarettes, protecting them from an illusory wind until a spark caught, lit. Wake's pulse thrummed in his ears.
The screen lit up. Credits roll. Wake leaned away, sick with unease and anticipation. 'Here we go,' he said, and Zane said, 'Yeah.'
The film was one hundred and twenty-five minutes long. Could've been shorter, but Wake wanted to be thorough, wanted as much of his script to make it in as possible, and Zane had facilitated that wish. The casting, the score, the rhythm of the film: it was everything he could've wanted. It transfixed Wake. Ash crumbled from his cigarette where it dangled abandoned from his hand; fifty minutes in, it slipped entirely to the gravel, his grip loose with sweat.
It was working. Wake mouthed Casey's dialogue along with him, told himself he could feel it. The story settling over everything, like a blanket draped over old furniture. Soaking in. The hostage scene, Casey shooting the gunman, chasing the second killer. The dark room. A corkboard on the wall, covered with red pins and string. The man with a black fabric bag over his head. A writer. The writer.
'We're gonna get you out of here,' Casey said. Dark blues and greens shimmering in the grey Not-New York evening. 'Gonna get you back-' grunting, as he pulled the writer out of a chair, '-to your wife.' His internal monologue spilled out as narration: That wasn't an option for me anymore. But this guy? He was lucky. He'd get to go home.
Wake closed his eyes.
Raindrops hit his eyelids. He blinked. Smoke wafted sideways - Zane, motionless beside him, staring up at the screen. The hostage was free. Wake's face flickered past, two storeys high. His cameo in a bookstore, edited neatly to establish him to be a writer, the writer. A kind of meta-joke. The film had come back to Casey to wrap up. The screen showed him alone. Then not alone - the love interest, taking his arm. A happy ending, despite Casey's doubts. An earned ending. Wasn't it?
Panic gripped Wake's insides like a fist. The screen faded to black, took up his entire span of vision with grainy darkness. The end. The story disintegrating, turning to ash. His mouth opened, closed.
'Damn,' Zane said.
Wake looked at him, speechless.
'Wasn't bad,' said his director. He sniffed, rubbed his nose. 'That was pretty great. But I guess it didn't work.'
Wake could hear his own voice shaking. 'Why? God-fucking-dammit!' He had spent so long on this film, longer than he'd spent writing anything in months, years, and still it had come apart at the seams. Even with a collaborator. Even with Zane. 'Why?'
Zane dropped his cigarette end and crushed it under the heel of his boot. 'Dunno,' he said, meeting Wake's gaze. Wake could detect no feeling in his smoke-pale eyes, and he realised, with a sensation like lead settling in his stomach, that Zane didn't care. Not like Wake did. 'Nothing wrong with your script that I could see. And I did right by it, I thought.'
He had. God, he had. Wake felt lightheaded; the rain was coming down heavier, colder, whiter. What the hell had gone wrong? Was it Zane? Had he not been an equal contributor? Had he not been able to see what Wake couldn't, point out the structural weaknesses in the script that might collapse it back into pure fiction? Did their mediums not mesh properly? Was he just not enough?
A snowflake melted on the rim of Zane's glasses. 'Well, Mr Wake,' he said, turning, his voice growing quieter as he moved away. 'Call me if you want to try again! Always a pleasure to work with you.'
Wake watched him go. On the screen, their film looped back to the beginning.
**
He enters the dressing room. Closes the door softly behind him, used to the dim lights by now. His director is in the chair, waiting for him.
'Hello? You're the, uh-'
'Alan!' his director says. He has an accent, but it isn't American; Wake can't place it at all, in fact. Artfully disheveled hair. Kohl-rimmed eyes. Five o'clock shadow. The new Thomas Zane fixes him with a broad, easy-going grin. 'Hey! How've you been, man?'