Gunlaw

Gunlaw 10

"You're on, Mister!" The runner pointed without seeming to look and took off, weaving past the grips and two honeys in sequins who must have wandered in from stage 4.

Issac stood, more quickly than he had intended, losing any pretence at being cool or calm or collected. His nerves rose with him. He patted the guns the wardrobe girl had hung on him and plonked the broad-brimmed hat on his head. At least they'd found one that fitted.

He looked around. They called it the Extras' Waiting room – a shed with chairs in would be more accurate. Make that an oven with chairs. The room had been built off the main stage and had a corrugated iron roof that the sun beat on so hard you'd swear you could hear it knocking after five minutes cooking there. Apart from Issac only two extras had yet to be called, both old women wilting in bonnets and shawls. A western they'd told him. So far he'd seen a cowboy and an undertaker, but no Indians.

"Wish me luck, ladies," he said, but neither of them could summon the energy to so much as raise a hand.

Issac ducked under the doorway and strolled into the corridor in the direction the runner took. He strolled rather than strode, partly to calm his nerves, but mainly because he had very little idea where he was supposed to go. He could feel the sweat running down his neck, and from his armpits down across his ribs, making the checked shirt stick.

Props men, grips, wardrobe girls, runners, filled the corridor, all in a hurry, all with an overpowering sense of purpose and urgency that made it impossible for him to ask for directions. Hell he didn't even know where he wanted directions to. "You're on!" was all the boy said.

Issac towered above everyone around him, above everyone in the cast come to that, but right now he felt like a little boy facing day one at school. He remembered that day, September eighth, nineteen twelve, pencil case clutched tighter than tight. Before the Great War. It had been hot that day too.

At the corner he turned left. He almost missed the 'Mister Bannon' in the general chatter and clatter, but the voice, though quiet, snagged his attention.

"Mister Bannon." A short man, thin, wrapped up despite the heat, hat and scarf, as if he were an actor too, sunglasses as if he weren't inside.

"That's me," Issac said. It didn't feel like him though. At nineteen he hadn't got used to people calling him Mister. And somebody had remembered his name? He hadn't expected that. Had to be a good sign.

The man pointed at the door opposite with a gloved had.

"Thanks." If the fella wants to die of sweating that's his business. Issac held his shrug back and pushed his way through the door, ducking again. Seemed like Hollywood didn't make any doorways for men who stood six three.

The door snicked shut behind Issac and the brim of his hat revealed the room beyond as he straightened. The place could double as an aircraft hangar, the lights so high above and far away looked more like stars and offered about the same level of illumination. Issac took two steps in, the echo of his boots giving the impression of more empty space than a man would ever need. Somewhere a floodlight went on, picking out a locomotive, a steam loco, polished brass and gleaming green enamel. Old-style, like the ones that carried his grandfather across the states to fight in the Civil War.

"Holy heck! That's a beauty." He pushed his hat back and stared.

Behind the loco stood at least one carriage but in such gloom Issac could barely see it. In fact apart from the locomotive and the ground around his feet he couldn't see anything or anyone.

"Hello?" Play it cool, Issac. Don't want to be the farm-boy in front of these Hollywood types.

Nothing.