The Twist of a Knife

10 Dressing Room 5

All the dressing rooms at the Vaudeville Theatre were more or less identical, dominated by a make-up table and recessed mirror with a wardrobe, a sofa, a fridge and a desk. But they were important to the actors in different ways. This was where they relaxed, prepared themselves for the performances, greeted friends. Hid.

Jordan Williams had the only one situated on the upper floor, closest to the light and (since all the windows in the building seemed to be nailed shut) to fresh air. It was just past the stage-door manager’s office, on the other side of the swing doors that you passed through when you came in from the street. I had met Jordan here on the opening night, but I had never been inside and crossing the threshold now, I almost felt as if I was trespassing.

Ewan had mentioned to me that Jordan had refused to sign his contract unless he could have Dressing Room 5 and I had to wonder if it had been worth the fight. It might have been a couple of square metres larger than the others. Instead of a sofa it had a daybed. But otherwise, the furniture was just as tatty, the carpet equally worn. The room was quite cluttered. His wardrobe was open and I was surprised how many clothes he’d managed to pack in, along with the suit he wore during the play. A battered suitcase stood against one wall and there were more old clothes in a plastic laundry basket on the floor. A variety of bottles were squeezed together on the fridge, and books and magazines were piled up everywhere else. As well as the flowers and good luck cards, I noticed a large, silver-framed photograph of Jordan embracing a fair-haired woman – he in a suit, she in white silk – the two of them posing in front of what looked like a registry office. A wedding photograph? It struck me as rather endearing that he should have brought it here. It would be the last thing he saw before he went onstage.

He was not pleased to see us.

‘Anthony – this isn’t a very good time. I like to be alone before a performance. This is a very important time for me. It’s the journey from where I am to where I need to be, from me to my character.’ Jordan often talked like this. He could be jovial – as he had been when I’d shown him my dagger on the first night. But he also took himself very seriously and this was reflected in his choice of language, which was often a little self-important.

I introduced Hawthorne and explained why we were there. ‘We just need a few minutes,’ I assured him.

‘Well, take a seat. You’ll forgive me talking with my back to you, but I’m doing my make-up.’ He reached for a pad of cotton wool. ‘So, you’re here about poor Harriet, are you?’ He grimaced. I saw the reflection in the mirror. ‘I really shouldn’t say this, but I think someone has done the world a favour. She won’t be missed.’

‘She had a husband and a daughter,’ Hawthorne reminded him.

‘So did Lucrezia Borgia. Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne. If you expect me to feel sorry for her, you’re wasting your time.’ He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘Did you read the other reviews? The Telegraph was excellent. The Guardian didn’t get it at all – but that’s typical. We had a very good audience last night. They thoroughly enjoyed it.’

‘Did you kill her?’ Hawthorne asked.

Jordan stopped with the cotton pad halfway down the long slope of his nose. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s just that I understand you called her a monster and threatened to put a knife in her.’ Hawthorne paused just long enough for the words to sink in. ‘And that’s exactly what occurred.’

Jordan scowled. The cotton pad completed its journey. He threw it down and turned round. ‘I hope you haven’t been breaking the confidentialities of the green room, Anthony,’ he exclaimed, and for the first time I heard a trace of an American accent in his voice. It was because he was annoyed. ‘What goes on tour, stays on tour. I thought you’d understand that.’

‘This is a murder investigation,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Well, I won’t deny what I said. But if we’re being direct with each other, I might as well tell you that I wasn’t alone. Anthony, for one, was all for it.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’ I exclaimed.

‘You nodded.’

‘No, I didn’t!’

‘You can ask the others. They all saw you. I said what I said and I may not have meant it, but you nodded your head in total agreement.’

‘You think Anthony killed her?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’m not saying that. Not at all. I’m just pointing out that he had as much motive as any of us. She really hated his play!’

‘You know that she was killed with a dagger,’ Hawthorne said.

‘So the police informed me. I spoke to two of them yesterday in this very room. A lady by the name of Cara Grunshaw and her rather kickable sidekick. They were particularly interested in the murder weapon.’ He leaned forward and grabbed the dagger he had been given by Ahmet. He waved it in our direction. ‘As you can see, I still have it. Not the murder weapon! Mine is unsullied! It wasn’t the most generous first-night present in my opinion. Quite tacky and irrelevant to the play. But much as I like Ahmet – and in many ways he is a decent enough chap – he doesn’t have much sense of style.’

‘So why did you agree to appear?’ Hawthorne asked.

That surprised him. ‘For the same reason that I agree to do anything. The script, dear boy, the script. I thought Mindgame was a genuinely interesting piece of work. That’s why I was so angered by Harriet Throsby’s intervention. And a comedy thriller! Why not? I’ve always believed it’s the mission of the actor to spread one’s wings. Shakespeare, Molière in the original French, Mamet, O’Neill. I spent two years on Broadway … in Sweeney Todd, Sondheim’s masterpiece.’

‘Who did you play?’ I asked.

‘I was the lead.’

The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Another killer.

‘In fact, the first part I took when I came to this country was also in a musical. Cats. I took over as Mr Mistoffelees at the London theatre. It was a wonderful experience.’

‘So how did you become an actor?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m a big fan. I very much enjoyed your performance as Dr Farquhar. I remember seeing you as King Lear at the Hampstead Theatre. And I watched Dick Turpin with my son.’

It was remarkable how easily Hawthorne lied. Those were exactly the two productions I had mentioned to him. But it did the trick. There are very few actors who don’t warm to someone who admires their work. Jordan put down the weapon and reached for some blusher instead.

‘I have been very fortunate to find my inner spirit,’ he began. ‘You could say that I began my life with nothing. I had no family. I had no background. Everything I held dear was taken away from me.’

‘You were born in America?’

‘Yes. In South Dakota. I’m sure Anthony will have acquainted you with my Native American heritage, Mr Hawthorne. I never knew my parents, which is to say, I was taken from them when I was just three years old. They were members of the Sicangu Tribe, good people I believe, but victims of a cruel system about which the world knows very little and cares even less.’

There was a protracted silence while he carefully smoothed out the shadows beneath his cheekbones.

‘I would imagine you have never heard of the Indian boarding schools that were prevalent across the United States from the end of the nineteenth century,’ he went on. ‘The Carlisle Indian Industrial School will mean nothing to you, even though a hundred and eighty Native children are buried there. It was all in the name of assimilation. Do you know what the motto was at Carlisle? “Kill the Indian, save the man.” I never went to the school. It had closed down long before I was born, but even so, that, in a nutshell, was what happened to me. That was the beginning of my life experience.’

He turned round to face us.

‘Until I was three years old, I lived with my mother in Rosebud, one of the poorest reservations in America. I wish I could tell you something about that time, but I don’t have any memories at all. I’m not sure if we even had running water or electricity, but I believe, in my heart, that we were a happy family … or at least, I would like to think so. All I know for certain is that my older brother got into some sort of trouble. He stole a car. As a result of this, my parents were deemed “unsuitable guardians” and a week later, two social workers turned up, removed me and my three sisters and took us all to foster homes. Separate foster homes. We never saw each other again.

‘Don’t think for a minute that my experience was unique. The state was allowed to remove children who were considered to be in danger and the social services acted with complete immunity. There were even cases of children being taken from school, snatched on the way to class. You or I would call it kidnap, but they believed they were saving us. Oh, and since the state received a thousand dollars in federal funds for every child taken into custody, it was a nice little earner too.

‘I suppose I was fortunate. Some of those children suffered terrible abuse, but I was adopted by a couple from California, Harry and Lisbeth Williams. They wanted only the best for me and I was brought up in a caring and supportive household in Pomona, to the east of Los Angeles. My adoptive father worked for a large casting agency in Hollywood and therein lies the answer to your question, Mr Hawthorne. Our table talk was often about feature films and actors and it was hardly surprising that before I was even in my teens, I should have decided to join the profession. In a way, my entire life was a performance. I was playing the part of the all-American boy, even though I experienced almost daily reminders that this was far from the case.’

‘You suffered racism?’

‘In high school, the other children made jokes about me being Lakota. They called me “Chief”. They would make tomahawk gestures … that sort of thing. I had to get used to being stopped quite unnecessarily by the police and there was an occasion when I was accused, falsely, of shoplifting. Later on, when I started work as an actor, I found I was treading a thin line between being stereotyped and being excluded. How many Indigenous actors can you actually name? Only one has ever won an Academy Award.[1] I’m not complaining! I consider myself in many ways to be very fortunate. But that is how it is.’

‘Have you ever gone back to Rosebud?’ I asked. ‘Did you find your birth parents?’

Jordan frowned. ‘No. My ethnicity has never been an issue for me. I’m very disconnected from my tribe. Jayne, my wife, was born in Huddersfield. I have two children with British passports. And in all this, I have had to consider the feelings of my adoptive parents. It may be that they felt a residue of guilt when they considered what they had done. When I was fifteen, Congress passed the Indian Child Welfare Act, which was designed to prevent any further adoptions such as mine – not, incidentally, that it succeeded. They never said as much, but I could tell that they were unhappy about my looking back, searching for my roots, as it were. They discouraged me from visiting the Rosebud Reservation. I have never been there. There are some who might criticise me for this, but I owe Harry and Lisbeth a great deal. Despite the distance between us, we are still very close. They’re elderly now … both in their late eighties. I have honoured them by trying to be what they want me to be, even if that is not entirely what I am.’

He stopped and turned back to the mirror, as if he was aware that he had been talking too much.

‘Did you find Mindgame easy to do?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Acting is never easy, Mr Hawthorne. I always say that if it’s easy, something is very much amiss. It’s an act of self-sacrifice, pulling the character from inside you. It can be painful. But that is how it should be.’

‘I was thinking about the violence at the end of Act One. And in most of Act Two.’

‘It’s not real. You surely can’t believe that it in any way connects me with what happened to Harriet Throsby.’

‘People can be violent without knowing what they’re doing.’ Hawthorne paused. ‘For example, during rehearsals I understand you hurt Sky Palmer.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘It’s no secret.’

Of course, I was the one who’d told Hawthorne what I’d seen. Just for once, he’d been considerate enough not to name me.

Jordan drew in a breath and I saw his hand, which had been lying flat on the make-up table, curl into a fist. ‘I am not a violent person, Mr Hawthorne, despite what you may have heard. That business with the cake, for example. I was just letting off steam. I had just read an unpleasant review and I overreacted. I do that sometimes. But if you really think I was planning to kill her, do you think I would have announced it in front of the entire company?’

Hawthorne didn’t reply.

‘As for Sky, that happened at the end of a long and tiring day. I had things on my mind. I’ll admit that there are times when I don’t know my own strength. We were rehearsing the scene where Styler and I have to tie the nurse to a chair. I had done it many, many times on the road without any issues, but just for once I suppose I lost concentration. I gripped her too tightly and I left bruises on her arms. Of course, I was mortified. Sometimes, the role, the created truth, can consume the actor. Have you read Stanislavski? That’s what happened for just a few brief seconds.’

‘You’re lucky it wasn’t Julius Caesar. There’d have been blood everywhere.’

Jordan ignored this. ‘I wrote her a note and I brought her flowers. I thought the incident had been forgiven and forgotten. I’m sorry to hear otherwise.’

‘Nobody’s complained about you, Jordan,’ I said hastily.

‘I’m glad to hear that. I’ve enjoyed my experience with Mindgame and from the start I’ve considered this to be a very happy company.’

‘Tell us about the others.’ Hawthorne had moved on. He was being positively genial now. ‘I’d be interested to know what you think of them.’

‘You mean – the other actors?’

‘Yes.’

‘As performers?’

‘As potential killers.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Jordan was more certain of himself now. ‘Sky Palmer is a dear, sweet girl. Tirian is a bit of a cold fish, but then he only joined the company for the London run and I haven’t had a chance to get to know him well.’

‘I’m told there were difficulties between you.’

‘Someone has been doing a lot of telling where this production is concerned.’ Jordan turned to the mirror and his reflection glanced accusingly at me. ‘Tirian Kirke is a young actor who is just finding his feet and I think it’s significant that he’s had no formal training – which is to say, he did not attend drama school.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘It makes a great deal of difference, although I would find it difficult to explain to someone who is not in the profession, particularly …’ he looked at his watch ‘… as we have so little time. Let us just say that he is not entirely giving as a performer. Movement on the stage is a symphony. One actor has to be aware of the others. It’s all about eye contact, about empathy, about heart. Tirian will learn in time, I’m sure, but he still has a long way to go.’

‘He’s just got a part in a big Hollywood movie.’

‘We all know about that, Mr Hawthorne. He never tires of telling us.’

‘Do you get on with Ewan Lloyd?’

‘I have enormous respect for Ewan. I remember his production of Much Ado About Nothing in Stratford years ago. He set the whole thing in 1930s Sicily. Don John and Don Pedro were Mafiosi. Dogberry was FBI. I have very much enjoyed working with him.’

He stood up and went over to the wardrobe. He took out the suit that he wore as Dr Farquhar. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get changed.’

Hawthorne and I both stood up. I thought we were going to leave, but as we moved towards the door, Hawthorne stopped in front of the photograph that I had noticed. ‘Your wife?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The monosyllable was heavy, inviting no further questions, but Hawthorne went on anyway. ‘Does she still work as a make-up artist?’

Jordan was taken aback. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘You are still married.’

‘Most certainly.’

‘I was just surprised she wasn’t in the audience at the first night.’

How had Hawthorne known that? He hadn’t been there and I was sure I hadn’t mentioned it – if, indeed, I’d even noticed.

Jordan Williams didn’t move. His eyes met Hawthorne’s. ‘She was out of London,’ he said. ‘She’s working on a BBC drama in Leeds.’

‘But you saw her after the party?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘When you went home?’

‘It was well after midnight. She was asleep.’

Hawthorne shook his head a little sadly. ‘“Men were deceivers ever,”’ he muttered. ‘“One foot in sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never.”’

‘What are you talking about?’ Jordan asked.

‘That’s Much Ado About Nothing. You mentioned it a moment ago.’

‘I think I’ve told you everything I want to tell you, Mr Hawthorne.’ Jordan got up and snatched the photograph. Without stopping, he turned it face down. It was unintentional, but the movement was so violent that the glass broke and when Jordan lifted his hand, there was a bead of blood on the side of his index finger.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he said, dully.

We left him sucking his finger. The blood stained his lip.