Friday Fiction: Traces Of A Love Film (Part 1)
Some of this is real
Here’s a Friday Fiction. By me, for once. I felt inspired to start this story after a shift at the cinema where I work. It’s not finished yet, but I thought I’d share part one, and that the rest will be completed next week. It’s only had minimal edits, so there may be the occasional typo, apologies if so. Where is this story going? I like to keep readers guessing. Enjoy! Karl
Traces Of A Love Film
Wind blowing from the frothing waters of the Old Beck greeted Traci. It carried the coolness of autumn, the much-needed impetus of forward motion, and a whiff of sewage. She inhaled deeply anyway. It was what passed for fresh air nowadays.
She liked taking in the view, leaning against the railings which were supposed to stop drunkards from falling into the river (but really ended up as climbing temptations). Across the waters, which rushed under the grey Sunday sky, were the empty car park and empty shops of a town in decline. Stillness, all the more obvious in contrast to the unseasonally high waters that separated her from what was supposedly a human junction.
There were usually more cars parked there. Even if just for the pub on the corner, where blokes in their fifties stood outside smoking, and tried to engage her in conversation as she hurried by. Friendly on the surface, though she suspected inebriated and predatory underneath.
But no one stood outside today. She checked her phone. She was on time. As ever. 3.28pm. Maybe they were all at the carvery, drooling at meats sunburnt to dryness from the hot lamps.
Behind her was the old mill that had been converted into the Sylvia Plath museum, also acting as the town’s only cinema. She pressed the big silver button which was embossed with the letters PRESS ME, a faint hint of Alice to the command. The door juddered outwards, granting entrance. It seemed pretty clear to Traci but she didn’t have the mind of the many visitors she’d witnessed stood in the rain gesticulating fruitlessly for the portal to open.
Lars looked up from his newspaper with a tired expression. He was like a black hole that sucked up the tiniest bit of energy or excitement and squashed it to nothing.
“Ah, you’re here,” he said.
Traci opened the door to the tiny staff room that was pretty much just a sink, a coat rack, and a desk that you couldn’t work at because it was covered in trays of paperwork, timesheets and lost property. She shrugged off her coat and hung it up. At this angle Lars couldn’t see her so she pulled at her jumper, making sure it hadn’t clung where it shouldn’t.
“Aren’t I always on time?” she asked as she closed the door behind her.
“Yar. Guess.”
Traci came behind the desk to check the diary, then noticed it was open in front of Lars. She wasn’t going to lean over him.
“Anything I should know?” she asked.
“Two private hires. I’ve set up the slide and music for the first. Running now, reckon. The bistro won’t be open today. Sick.”
Were the people sick, or did he approve of an emptier building? You could never tell with him.
He stood, stretched, yawned. She had to step back to avoid his arms, and her calves pushed against the radiator which was hot enough to burn skin.
“See ya,” he said, with a half-lidded glance that always made her feel icky, before sloping off once the front door juddered open. No bag or coat. She guessed he must live nearby, on the estate that overlooked the building. He’d never volunteered the information, and she wasn’t going to ask.
She confirmed details in the diary, then put it on the window ledge with the account books. The first hire was 4-6pm. They’d probably arrive to set things up in ten minutes, so she had plenty of time.
At the end of the short corridor to the rear exit was the narrow staircase up to the museum. It probably kept her fit going up and down those while working. At the top was the projection room door on her left, and the museum around a corner to her right. The Sylvia Plath museum was closed now, of course, locked up and in darkness until Tuesday when the building reopened properly to the public. She didn’t bother checking, just heaved open the heavy door to the projection room and entered, careful of the downstep that had caught many projectionists out. Lars had left the lights off but she reached along the wall and found the switch.
A narrow room, so small you had to zig-zag around the equipment. An old film projector with two big spools that hadn’t been used in twenty years except for when people wanted their photograph taken in front of it. The real projector was a monstrous box bigger than a fridge, with piped venting running up to the fan in the attic space so heat could be drawn away from the lamp. She skirted it, careful of the rack of cables that jutted out from the wall, and the sharp-edged shelves housing CDs, DVDs, electronic kit. She’d cracked her head on those a few times in the dark. The sound system was next, then the table with the Cinelister PC and a laptop. The latter displayed the Powerpoint slide which was projected onto the screen in the auditorium below, visible through the interior sliding glass window.
“Happy 9th Bitherday Neve! We hope you get lots of presents and have a great time!”
Traci corrected Lars’ typo. Then wondered about the name. Should it be spelt Niamh? Maybe Lars had got the name over the phone and spelt it how it sounded, not knowing about Irish spellings. The only reason Traci knew is because she’d considered the name for herself. It fascinated her that its appearance was different to the lovely sound it contained. But in the end she didn’t fancy having to explain the spelling every single time she introduced herself, attracting more awkward attention than she was comfortable with.
There, a yellow sticky note. Lars must have tested the DVD and noted the settings. Scaler flat, full mode, 5.3 sound level.
She wondered how much of Paw Patrol he’d watched.
A glance through the interior window – the only window in the projection room, for obvious reasons – showed he’d set up the trestle table on the stage. The seats all looked fine, none in the down position that might indicate a broken hinge. Front auditorium door propped open, emergency exit door closed.
She might not like being in close physical proximity to him, but it was obvious Lars was patient and methodical in whatever goals he set for himself.
Back downstairs. No one had arrived yet. Traci flicked the switch above the automatic door, so that it opened and stayed open. It saved all the issues with people trying to get in, not realising they need to step back otherwise the door couldn’t open because they were stood in its way. Or – less stupid, more stupid? – standing there on the assumption that the door had an automatic sensor and would spring open for them as if they were honoured guests, with no need to dirty one’s fingers by pressing a button touched by commoners.
Some museum visitors fitted that latter category; the people coming for the cinema, less so. Poetry snobs versus Hollywood braindeads, that must be the difference in types of stupidity, which both led to the same outcome of standing in the rain wondering why they couldn’t get in.
A few more checks to do. Traci headed down the passage to the side of the auditorium, lined with film posters. Ice cream machine on, check. Cups by the water dispenser, check. Popcorn and chocolate display properly faced up, check.
A glance into the auditorium as she passed, the tiers of empty red seats waiting expectantly. She was glad there was no talk tonight, where she might have to stand in front of seventy faces and introduce someone. She just knew her skin would end up a colour closely matching the fabric people sat on.
She checked the toilets just past there, knocking before entering the men’s just in case. All the toilet tissue and paper towel dispensers had at least one roll in. Soaps looked topped up. No mess on the floor. Should be okay for at least the first showing.
She made the return journey and stood outside again, under the huge willow that shaded the entrance. Cascades of drooping branches swished about her in the breeze, free and happy in themselves.
It turned out to be the calm before the storm.
***
Kids chased each other around the auditorium, squealing like pigs, while Traci covered the basics for the anxious-looking parents. That they should take litter home at the end; where the toilets and emergency exits were; whether they wanted Traci to lower the lights for people to sing happy birthday; and what time she should start the film to give everyone else time to arrive. The mother she spoke to seemed more focussed on laying out cakes, sweets, fizzy pop and throwaway glow sticks than on listening.
Traci headed back to the front-of-house desk, directing people as they arrived, trying to use a variety of stock phrases.
“Here for Neve’s birthday? Just down there, in the cinema.”
“Birthday party? Through the door on the left.”
“Just follow the noise.”
Parents would drop the kids off and scurry out again with a look of relief. One of the fathers gave her a long look as he passed. Was he vaguely familiar? Someone with a tenuous link to her past? It was why she preferred to work in the next town over, even though it meant catching a bus.
He left without saying anything to her. Without smiling, either. She was used to it, and it was the best outcome, really.
By now the kids were running riot. She felt the thumps as they pounded up and down the central steps between the aisles of seats. One of the youngest had worked out that the rear auditorium door led to where Traci waited, and they could then run around the side, down the poster-lined corridor, and back into the auditorium through the door nearest the cinema screen. It began an endless, looping chase punctuated by screams. Traci didn’t want to get into an argument with the remaining supervisory parents about acceptable behaviour, especially as she couldn’t use the excuse that the bistro upstairs was open and the noise would disturb the diners. But for her, even with the restaurant closed, the animalistic noise seemed disrespectful to the building.
It was going to be one of those showings.
When all the kids had been dropped off, Traci went upstairs and prepped the DVD on the separate display. Once she’d got through the endless, unskippable menus, trailers, adverts, and anti-piracy warnings (all of which acted as the best argument for piracy) she switched the main projector output to the DVD, selected the external sound source, lowered the auditorium lighting, and dialled in the correct volume.
After watching for a few moments for any unexpected hitches, she went downstairs and opened the rear auditorium door a crack to check the sound levels seemed okay. Yep, all fine. And the kids were finally sat down and (mostly) quiet.
Small mercies.
Traci changed the front door setting back to button-activated, to keep some heat in reception. She found a recent film magazine in one of the office trays and leaned against the wall next to the radiator. The building had a lot of cold spots, but it was worth standing up to be in one of the warm ones.
***
The front door had opened five times as people came in to buy film tickets or visit the bistro. The latter left disappointed, since they’d need to cross the river back to the main street where the main options were takeaway or microwaved Wetherspoons.
One of the adults in the private hire left the auditorium to take a child to the toilets, but instead of going back into the cinema afterwards, they came to reception. Traci thought they wanted something, but noticed the girl was crying, the woman with her looking stressed.
“Everything okay?” Traci asked, but the woman hardly glanced at her, just pressed the exit button and the two left, fading out of view at the edge of the porch lights.
Probably too much cake and junk food. Traci just hoped the kid hadn’t barfed on her seat first. That was the worst.
Or maybe the kid that shat itself six months ago and stayed sat until the end of the film so it soaked through his shorts and into the seat, was that worse?
Nah, probably it was the hen party when she had to show Magic Mike to fifty prosecco-guzzling women who screamed louder than today’s kids and had also set up a paddling pool. Traci didn’t like to remember the state of the toilets by the end. Or the way they’d made lewd comments and asked Traci to get on the stage and … but that was back then, and something had distracted her now. What?
Not outside the window, not a person about to come around the corner and into the building. The film hadn’t gone silent, implying a tech issue. The ice cream cabinet was still lit.
The security monitor behind the sweet display. Something there?
She bent over and squinted. It wasn’t a big screen to start with, but was divided into twelve squares. The bottom row was blank grey because the building only had nine cameras. Three showed the exterior view of exits: front door near Traci, rear staff exit at the base of the museum stairs, and exit to the patio where bistro customers could eat outside. Two views of the car park, except one of the cameras was a blurry mess because a spider had made its home in front of the lens again. It had freaked her out when she’d first realised what it was, and the blurry spindle shapes resolved into the spider’s legs, except it looked bigger than the cars in the park below. Ever since then she’d have momentary imaginary flashes of a giant spider descending from the weeping willow and cocooning a car in web, kids inside screaming in horror.
One box was a view of the auditorium, where she noted kids kept getting up and fetching more cake or sweets from the trestle table, their wobbly legs no doubt meaning bits got dropped and trodden into the carpet. One camera showed the unlit museum, and another the bistro, both upstairs. The last display showed the back of Traci’s head as she bent over; if she’d not been blocking the view, it would have revealed the till to her left.
There. Just a hint of blue at the edge of the bistro’s eating-out area. Then it was gone again. Someone outside that exit, and mostly outside of the camera’s field of view, near where the seats were.
Traci headed past the auditorium, past the toilets and the second staircase which led up to the bistro. She pushed the metal waist-height bar on the doors which acted as emergency exits when the bistro was shut, and stepped out into the dusk.
Three people in hoodies. One was blue, the one she’d seen. They were huddled together and turned to face her.
Teenagers. Sometimes they’d gather there when the restaurant was shut, because it had an awning overhead that kept the rain off, and was out of sight of the main road thanks to the ornamental bushes. If left unchecked you’d go to lock up and realise there were broken bottles, empty cans, empty vapes (and the packaging they’d come in), sometimes worse. Twenty minutes extra of sweeping up before you could go home.
And yet, faced with the three surly lads, one of whom was hastily putting something in his pocket, her mind went blank. Witticisms and the voice of authority faded away.
She said, “You’re not meant to be here.”
“Why not?” asked the tallest.
“It’s private property.” How lame she sounded.
“There’s seats.”
“They’re for customers.”
“I’m a customer.”
“No you’re not.”
They’d stepped closer while the exchange took place. She was suddenly aware of how dark it was out here, apart from the faint illumination of the bulb next to the camera.
“Look,” she said. “You want to get out of the drizzle for a few minutes? Fine. But I’m sick of clearing up mess out here.”
“You saying we make a mess?” asked the one with the blue hood.
“Some people do. I can see you’re not drinking. I’m going back in. In five minutes I’ll check again, and if you’ve gone, there’s no issue. If not, I’ll have to ring the police.”
“Bitch,” said the tallest.
Traci was glad she’d kept one hand on the door and held it open. She retreated inside, just as one of them kicked at the door. She checked it was properly bolted and couldn’t be opened from outside.
Her heart pounded.
One of them had said something, only partially heard. Had he called her a “hound”? Or said “hon”?
It didn’t matter. She had to stop being over-sensitive to every nuance. The lads were arseholes either way. They sloped out of sight, towards the bushes with a gap in them, that led down to the river.
(Part Two next Friday.)
What will happen next?!