Normally when a series was up and running the original scriptwriter who had come up with the idea moved on, and less expensive, less well-known people took over, but Sean had insisted on continuing to write the series. He didn’t want to hand his brain child over to anyone else. No doubt he would one day, thought Harriet, when he felt he’d worked out the mine of storylines he had, but so far there was no sign of him tiring of the series.
But he had soon learnt to value his services, and had rapidly developed a good grasp of negotiating with a cheeseparing company. Billy hated parting with money unless you had a knife to his throat.
Other TV companies were beginning to approach Sean’s agent to ask if Sean would work for them. Harriet was terrified that he would take one of these offers and she would lose him for good, both from the series and from her life. They were friends, nothing more, she was afraid they never would be more, but she would miss him if he moved on, and even though The Force was well established and other writers could carry on, the series would never be the same without him.
The actors would do a good job with their characters, but the originality wouldn’t be there any more, that sharp, funny, sad spark of life wouldn’t survive. It would turn into just another series, like all the rest.
Not that she showed how she felt as he joined her and Annie. ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly.’ She gave him one of her comradely pats on the shoulders and he grinned.
‘He’s not here yet, then?’
Sean had once had a run-in with a drunk holding a broken bottle; his face had a faint white scar down the edge of his left cheek which showed livid in daylight and gave him a faintly piratical air.
‘No sign of him.’
‘You’ve rung him?’
‘Well, what do you think?’ Harriet drily asked, and Sean grimaced.
‘OK, give me a quiet corner, a copy of today’s shooting script, and ten minutes.’ He had his laptop computer in one hand, his portable phone in the other, a battery of pens in the top pocket of his denim jacket.
He hadn’t shaved yet, Harriet noticed, his chin bristled with fair stubble. Under the blue jacket he wore a black shirt, open at the neck and tie-less; his jeans were well-worn and faded. He looked more like a villain than a cop.
‘Ah, here’s your bit of rough,’ Mike Waterford had said the other day, having somehow picked up on her feelings for Sean, and although Mike had meant it unpleasantly there was some truth in it. Harriet didn’t like her men to be too smooth, and Sean certainly wasn’t. He fitted in here, in the market – he could be one of the men busy setting up their stalls all around them. That tough, aggressive look was the last thing you expected from a writer.
‘You can use my dressing-room,’ Annie offered.
He gave her a brief glance, nodding. ‘OK, thanks.’
She opened her handbag to get out the key; the caravan was kept locked while Annie wasn’t inside it to guard against petty theft. When they were shooting on location things were always disappearing, which was why, even though she locked her caravan, she kept anything really valuable with her all day.
Annie held out the key to Sean. Behind them a motorbike engine revved noisily, but neither of them noticed.
As Sean took the key from her the bike roared past them. The rider leaned over and snatched Annie’s bag out of her hand, at the same time giving her a push sideways.
Annie fell, face down, almost knocking over the camera. For a minute she was too dazed to realise what had happened.
The motorbike swerved away, picking up speed, through the market, the gathering crowds of people scattering in front of it like the parting of the Red Sea as the children of Israel went through.
Harriet hurried to help Annie to her feet. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked anxiously.
Annie leaned on her, breathing raggedly for a minute. ‘I’ve got a couple of bruises and my knee’s grazed, that’s all,’ she said when she had got her breath back. ‘My tights are ruined! I’ll have to change them. And he got my bag!’
Sean had dropped all his equipment and was already running after the bike, shouting, ‘Stop him!’ to some of the crew, who were standing around a street-café van, eating hot dogs and drinking steaming mugs of tea.
The rider looked over his shoulder. Annie couldn’t see his face – he was wearing a black helmet, his face invisible behind the visor.
‘He’s got a nerve! With all these policemen around! Even if most of them aren’t real policemen,’ said Derek, joining them. He seemed almost admiring of the thief’s daring. Some of the cast in their uniforms were in hot pursuit, and some real policemen joined in the hunt, but the motorbike had disappeared up a narrow alley behind a tight collection of market stalls.
‘They’ve lost him!’ Annie groaned.
Sean and the others were a long way behind, but they all piled into the alley after him.
The crowd in the market had thickened; they stood there, faces oddly all the same, flushed with winter cold, eyes bright, staring at the chase, grinning and talking to each other – did they think it was part of the filming?
For heaven’s sake, can’t they tell it’s for real? thought Annie. Yet how should they know? Increasingly people weren’t sure what was real and what was acting.
How can they tell the difference between real blood and something out of a plastic bottle, when all they see is the image? Pictures, nothing but moving pictures. How can they distinguish between acting, and genuine naked terror? If the guy on the bike had killed me, would they have applauded? she wondered, shivering. Maybe they would. Christ, what sort of business are we in?