Shooting Star

SHOOTING STAR

Small hands gently close the ‘Rupert the Bear’ Annual and place it on the bedside table, then reach further over to click off the dragon night-light.

         Several seconds elapse while the innocent childish eyes accustom themselves to the darkness of the cluttered bedroom. A chink of light filters through the cheap home made curtains, which match the counterpane on the bed and the drape around the kidney shaped dressing table. The slither of light illuminates contrasting shapes of bedroom furniture, unfriendly, threatening dark shapes. A tiny flickering flame from an ancient paraffin lamp throws dancing shadows across walls and ceiling. A giant bird of prey hovers overhead; the shadow cast by a kite hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Featureless heads and faces of varying shapes and sizes reflect from the row of beloved stuffed toys arranged neatly on top of the bookcase.

         All is still apart from an occasional external night sound. A wind-blown tree branch taps gently against the window.

         “Let me in,” a small voice seems to whisper.

         The rattle of a train passing by in the distance.

         “You can’t keep me out,” the voice whispers again. “I’m coming.”

         The minute click of a handle as the door of the mahogany wardrobe slowly opens, creaking noticeably in the silence. The tilting mirror inside reflects the hideous face of the pink clown nestling in the rocking chair. From the wardrobe a small figure emerges dressed in baby blue. A porcelain doll, her face as pale as the moon that glistens in the dark sky beyond the window slowly makes her way towards the gruesome clown and plants a kiss on its ugly mouth. Immediately the clown gives an evil chuckle and jumps from the rocking chair before cart wheeling towards the pine louvre cupboard doors. It yanks them open and takes out a box of custard pies. Laughing hysterically, it throws the pies, one by one, at the walls. They hit the pretty lilac wallpaper with a loud splat, their red sticky contents trailing down the walls towards the carpet.

         The doll wears a smug grin and quietly giggles. Crossing the room to the small cradle, she gives it a hefty kick with her chubby pot leg. It rocks violently, disturbing something that lies within it. Loud, haunting wails join the cacophony of sounds filling the room.

         The doll heads towards the dragon night-light and clicks on the switch. The dragon opens its jaws and projects a giant ball of fire into the darkness, illuminating chaotic scenes.

         The small figure in the bed stirs, rolls over, disturbing the stone hot water bottle that rests under her feet. It falls from the bed hitting the blue enamel chamber pot on the floor with a loud clang. The pot tips over, spilling its contents onto the hand crafted bedside rug. The pungent smell of stale urine fills the air. The child now sits bolt upright in the bed, a look of petrified horror on her face and releases a terrified, blood-curdling scream.

         “Cut!”

         “That was absolutely divine lovies. It’s a wrap.” Calvin Carlsberg takes a large gulp from his glass of bourbon as he visualises the Bafta award he is sure will this time be his. At last, he is convinced he’s got it right, he can feel it in his ulcer-ridden gut. His new discovery, the child prodigy Kylie McSulkin has the makings of a future star. When she has matured a little who knows what could develop between them?

          “Kylie babe, you were absolutely superb, brilliant. An Oscar winning performance. Go fetch Calvin a little refill will you sweety?”

         “Kylie?”

         “Kylie?”

         “KYLIE!”

         “Oh my God, someone phone an ambulance quick!”