Night on Terror Island Page 3

‘That’s not what I mean. Did you … did you see anything else when you looked at it?’

  Dad seemed puzzled.

  ‘Like what?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, like a Tyran … a big Tyran …’ Kip’s voice trailed away. How could he explain what he’d seen without coming over as a complete nutter? ‘Like an email address?’ he finished lamely.

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘Like I said, useless. But what about all that stuff he knew? He described our projection room as though he’d lived in the place. And he knew more about Norman than I do and I’ve worked with him for years!’ Dad’s expression darkened. ‘Most baffling of all, if he really was living in Venice and I only put the advert in the Manchester Evening News six days ago, how in the name of God did he manage to get himself over here in time to—’

  ‘I flew,’ said a voice from the open doorway and Kip and Dad nearly jumped out of their skins. Mr Lazarus was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, an amused smile on his thin lips. ‘You’ve no idea how tired my arms were.’

  ‘Oh … er … sorry, we didn’t hear you come in,’ stuttered Dad. ‘I hope that didn’t sound rude.’

  ‘It did, now you mention it, but there’s no problem.’ Mr Lazarus sauntered into the office and stood beside the desk. He noticed the gift box lying there and reached out a gloved hand to tap it with his forefinger. ‘It looks as though somebody is going to receive a little gift tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, just something for Norman, to mark his retirement,’ said Dad. ‘It’s really not very much.’

  ‘Everybody appreciates a gift,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘And a watch is always a nice present, don’t you think?’

  Kip and Dad exchanged glances. The box was closed.

  ‘How do you do that?’ asked Kip.

  Mr Lazarus gave him a look of pure innocence.

  ‘A simple deduction,’ he said. ‘What else would you give somebody after so many years of faithful service? A watch is the traditional gift, no?’ He smiled. ‘Oh, Mr McCall, I just wanted to warn you, I’ll be having some equipment delivered tomorrow morning. I’ll get the keys from Norman tonight and I will be there to organise carrying the boxes up to the projection room.’

  ‘What kind of equipment?’ asked Dad warily.

  ‘Just my own little bits and pieces,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘Over the years I have developed my own particular way of doing things. I can assure you it won’t interfere with the normal running of the cinema; in fact, I think you will be delighted with the results. Oh yes, before I forget.’ He lifted a hand with a flourish and a large brown envelope appeared magically in his fingers. ‘You might want to look at these,’ he said, handing the envelope to Dad.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Mr McCall.

  ‘You wanted references, did you not? I found a few scraps of information among my papers that I thought might interest you.’

  ‘I’ll er … look at them when I’ve got a spare moment,’ said Dad. ‘Thanks for bringing them in. Anyway …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Kip, it’s half seven, we’d better get the popcorn on.’

  Mr Lazarus smiled. ‘And I’d better get up to the projection room. Poor Norman has been working so hard up there, cleaning and polishing. There was really no need for him to go to such trouble. I’ll see you after the film. For the party.’

  He seemed to glide out of the ticket office and around to the doors of the auditorium. Dad shook his head.

  ‘Did you tell him about the party?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Maybe Norman did.’

  ‘Norman doesn’t know,’ said Dad. ‘That’s why they call it a surprise party.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Kip. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe Mr Lazarus is a mind-reader.’

  He went through into the sweet kiosk and switched on the popcorn machine, telling himself as he did so that, the first chance he got he was going to have a look at Mr Lazarus’s references, to see if they might give him any clues about the mysterious projectionist.

  It was a Saturday night, usually the best night of the week, and sure enough the place was almost three quarters full, so Dad was very pleased. After the crowd had drifted out, Kip helped to set up the refreshments on a table in the foyer, while Dad fetched the bottles of wine he had stored in the office and some paper cups left over from Christmas. Beth called in with a card she’d bought for Norman. Minnie, the lady who helped clean the cinema over the weekend, turned up too, and Dad had invited several regular customers to join them.

  ‘Help yourselves to drinks from the fridge,’ Dad told Beth and Kip. He set the box of wine on the table, opened the flaps and lifted out a bottle. He stared at it for a moment.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ asked Kip.

  Dad was taking out other bottles. ‘These aren’t the wines I bought.’

  Kip stared at him. ‘They must be,’ he said.

  Dad shook his head. ‘No way. I bought supermarket plonk at four quid a go. This stuff …’ He peered at the label of the bottle he was holding. ‘Sangiovese,’ he read. ‘Chianti Classico. 1945 …’ His jaw dropped. ‘Good grief, Kip, this is vintage wine. It must have cost a flipping bomb!’ He peered into the box as though expecting to see other cheaper bottles in there. Instead, he pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper. He unwrapped it to discover a crystal wine glass. ‘There’s more of them in here,’ he said. ‘There’s even a corkscrew. I don’t understand. It’s the same box but …’

  At that moment, the door of the auditorium opened and Norman and Mr Lazarus strolled out, deep in conversation – or, at least, Mr Lazarus was talking while Norman listened intently. He glanced up at the small gathering in surprise.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said. ‘What’s all this, then?’

  ‘Just a little farewell party,’ Dad told him. ‘To say thank you for all your hard work over the years. Will you have white or red, Norman?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Norman. ‘I don’t normally drink alcohol but, as it’s a special occasion, I’ll have a little drop of red.’ Dad uncorked a bottle and filled a couple of the crystal glasses. ‘Mr Lazarus?’

  ‘I’ll go for the Tocai Fruliano,’ he said. ‘Fifty-one was a spectacular year.’

  Dad looked at him.

  ‘So this must be your doing,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘I thought an occasion like this demanded something special – and, of course, you cannot drink vintage wine from a paper cup.’ Dad filled a glass with white wine and handed it to him, then passed out drinks to the other guests.

  ‘You must let me know what you’ve spent,’ he told Mr Lazarus. ‘I can’t allow you to pay for this out of the pittance I’m going to be paying you …’ Dad looked mortified. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ he said. ‘We never even discussed your salary, did we?’

  Mr Lazarus waved a hand in dismissal.

  ‘It is no great matter, Mr McCall. Pay me whatever you used to pay Norman. And as for the wine … well, that is my pleasure. Consider it my little contribution to this charming party.’

  ‘You’re really too generous.’ Dad picked up his glass of red and then lifted it in a toast. ‘Well, we all know why we’re here tonight, to say thank you to Norman, who has been a vital part of the Paramount for so many years. We really couldn’t have kept going without him. To Norman,’ he said, ‘wishing you every happiness in your retirement.’

  ‘To Norman!’ everyone raised their glasses in unison and they all drank.

  Norman looked around, a little misty-eyed.

  ‘How kind,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything like this.’

  Kip stepped forward with the cards and handed them to Norman. There was an awkward silence while he opened each of them and examined them in great detail. Beth had actually found a card featuring an old black-and-white photograph of a silent-movie cinematographer. The message inside read, To The World’s Greatest Movie Buff.

  ‘It took me ages to find the right card,’ said Beth. ‘No idea who th
e guy in the picture is, but I thought you’d like it.’

  Mr Lazarus leaned across to look at the photograph.

  ‘It’s Wallace Evans,’ he said. ‘A charming fellow, very fond of chocolate cake, as I remember.’

  ‘You … know him?’ gasped Beth.

  ‘I knew him,’ said Mr Lazarus. ‘He’s gone now, of course. But we had some happy times together.’

  Now Dad stepped forward with the gift box.

  ‘We’ve bought you something,’ he said. ‘It’s really not very much and, of course, if the style doesn’t suit, you can always exchange it for something else.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ said Norman. ‘Thank you so much.’ He opened the box and looked at the contents. For a few moments he said nothing and Kip couldn’t really blame him. The trendy watch wasn’t a suitable present for a man of his age, he probably wouldn’t be seen dead in something like that. Then Norman let out a gasp and his eyes filled up. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Exquisite.’

  Kip and Dad exchanged glances. Kip thought he was laying it on a bit thick for a twenty-quid digital with a plastic strap.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ protested Dad. ‘There wasn’t a lot of time and—’ He broke off in baffled silence, because now Norman was taking the watch from the box – but it wasn’t the watch that had been in there before. It was a large silver pocket watch on a length of chain. Norman turned it over in his hand and he gasped again. ‘You’ve had it engraved!’ he cried.

  ‘Have we?’ asked Dad incredulously.

  Dad and Kip could only stand and stare as Norman read out what was inscribed on the watch’s silver case. ‘To Norman with much affection from all your friends at the Paramount.’ He looked up at Dad. ‘This is too much!’ he protested.

  Dad looked like he was in total agreement.

  ‘I … I don’t quite understand …’ he mumbled. ‘I only …’

  ‘Open the watch,’ suggested Mr Lazarus, pointing. ‘You see, there’s a little catch there.’

  Norman pressed the catch and the silver cover flipped open. The watch began to play a familiar tinkling tune.

  ‘The theme from The Godfather!’ said Norman. ‘My all-time favourite film!’ He stared at Dad. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Er … because er … you … you must have … mentioned it some time?’ Dad lifted his glass of wine and took a large gulp of the contents.

  Kip’s mind was racing. How was such a thing possible? He could understand how Mr Lazarus might have substituted the wine, but he had only been told about the gift two hours earlier, before the showing had started. The box had been on Dad’s desk ever since and, as far as Kip was aware, Mr Lazarus had been up in the projection room, all through the film. And besides, even if he had sneaked away for a few moments, there was nowhere around here where you could buy a watch like that and get it engraved in a couple of hours.

  ‘Well, thank you all so much,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll treasure this.’ He returned the watch to its box and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took a large gulp of his wine. ‘You know, this is the nicest wine I’ve ever tasted,’ he said. ‘I do believe I’ll have another glass!’

  Dad dutifully topped him up.

  ‘It is lovely,’ he agreed. ‘We have Mr Lazarus to thank for that.’ He studied the tall thin man for a moment, as though trying to figure him out. ‘While we’re making toasts, I suppose we really should have another one,’ he said. ‘To the man who’s going to take over from our Norman. A man who has already made some … amazing changes. To Mr Lazarus!’

  ‘Mr Lazarus!’ everyone said and they all drank to his health. He stood there, looking back at them, his grey eyes regarding them, a half-smile on his thin lips; and Kip found himself wondering what other changes he might have in store for the Paramount.

  CHAPTER SIX

  KIP WOKE EARLY the next morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. A weird mixture of thoughts and questions kept bubbling through his head and they all had to do with Mr Lazarus. How did that ‘business card’ of his work? How had he managed to switch Norman’s wine and present without anybody noticing? And how did he know so much about a cinema he had never visited before?

  Eventually, Kip got up and slouched downstairs in his pyjamas. He found a note from Mum on the kitchen table, saying that she’d had to drive over to work to help out with an ‘unexpected crisis’. He was to let Dad sleep late, because Mum thought he was looking very tired. Kip sighed. He popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and switched on the kettle.

  When he’d finished breakfast, Kip put his plate in the dishwasher and went through to Dad’s study. He switched on the computer and, while he was waiting for it to boot up, he noticed a brown envelope lying on the desk. It was the envelope that Mr Lazarus had given Dad the day before.

  He looked inside and saw a sheath of papers of various sizes. They were old and mottled, clearly not photocopies but originals. He set them down on the desk and started to leaf through them. They were mostly articles cut from newspapers, though annoyingly there was nothing on any of them to identify when they had been published. However, they all looked ancient, the typefaces all higgledy-piggledy, everything set out in little columns and boxes. When he looked closer, he realised that they weren’t even in English, but what looked like Italian; he wondered how Mr Lazarus had expected Dad to be able to decipher them.

  Kip turned the pages, hoping to find something that he could actually read but then his eye was caught by a black-and-white photograph of a cinema. Carved into its stonework was the name Il Fantoccini. And on the hording in front of the cinema was what must have been the title of the film they were showing, Cabiria. Several people were posed proudly on the steps at the entrance.

  Closest to the camera stood a man in a top hat, tail coat and those weird black shoes with white toecaps on them. He wore white gloves and was leaning on a walking stick. He had a thick, black moustache that made him look like a walrus and he was smiling at the camera and lifting his free hand in a gesture that seemed to say, Behold, my cinema! This, Kip decided, must have been the Señor Ravelli that Mr Lazarus had mentioned. Other people stood a polite distance behind him: several men wearing military-style uniforms with flat-peaked caps and epaulettes on their shoulders, and a younger man, dressed in a fancy waistcoat and striped trousers. He was gazing proudly at the camera, hands on hips, a half-smile on his face. Kip gasped because there was no mistaking who it was. He was looking at a much younger version of Mr Lazarus.

  Kip leafed through the rest of the papers but found nothing else he was able to read. So he got Google up on the computer and typed Il Fantoccini into the search box. Up came a series of articles but none of them seemed to have anything to do with a cinema of that name.

  He decided to try another tack and typed in Cabiria. The first hit revealed that it was a silent movie, directed by somebody called Giovanni Pastrone, released in …’ Kip stared at the screen and had to check another couple of sites to make sure there had been no mistake. They all agreed on the release date. 1914. Kip found the photograph and looked at it again. Though the cinema was undoubtedly old-fashioned, in the picture it looked brand spanking new, freshly painted and clean as a whistle. He looked again at the young man in the waistcoat. It was Mr Lazarus, he was sure of that, not his father or his grandfather. But if this really was the cinema’s opening day and the film it was showing was fresh on release, then that made Mr Lazarus … Kip counted in his head, not really wanting to believe.

  Assuming he was in his teens in the photograph, that would make him way over a hundred years old. While Kip could accept that he was pretty elderly and might actually be some years older than he looked, this was pushing it a bit.

  He remembered Mr Lazarus saying something about equipment that was being delivered to the cinema this morning, so he logged off the computer and went back upstairs to get dressed, dragging on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He glanced into Dad’s room but he was still snoring soundly, t
he covers pulled up around his head. He checked Rose’s room and she too was out for the count, her eyes closed, her golden hair fanned out on the pillow around her. She looked cute when she was like this, but Kip wasn’t fooled for a moment. Any minute now she’d be up, demanding that he play with her and her collection of Barbie dolls.

  He went downstairs again, grabbed his jacket and keys and walked quickly to the Paramount, just in time to see a large van driving away.

  The foyer was deserted, so Kip made his way up to the projection room. The door was open and there were noises from within, the gentle clinking of metal against metal. Kip could see that Mr Lazarus was busy setting up an elaborate piece of equipment alongside the projector. He had taken his leather coat off and was wearing a richly-embroidered waistcoat, very like the one he had been wearing in the old photograph. The equipment was like nothing that Kip had ever seen before and seemed to consist of a round wooden platform set on a couple of metal rails. As Kip watched, Mr Lazarus slid the platform backwards and forward, occasionally squirting a drop of oil from an old-fashioned canister onto the tracks. He never turned his head to look, but when he spoke it was evident that he knew who he was talking to.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, boy, come along inside.’

  Kip stepped sheepishly into the room.

  ‘Er … hi,’ he said. ‘I remembered you were having stuff delivered and I thought you … you might like some help.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Mr Lazarus turned his head for a moment and studied Kip. Kip had the unpleasant sensation that he was being scrutinised by somebody who knew everything that went on inside his head. Mr Lazarus waved a hand at an open toolbox. ‘Grab yourself a screwdriver,’ he said. ‘You can help me tighten this track.’

  Kip picked up a screwdriver.

  ‘Er … what do you want me to—?’

  ‘Just tighten all the fittings,’ Mr Lazarus told him. ‘There mustn’t be the slightest movement in any of it.’

  Kip did as he was told and found that the strangely-shaped screwdriver fitted perfectly into the strangely-shaped screw heads.