Beetle Queen Page 18

  ‘Gerard, I think we should try the diadem.’

  The butler went to the dressing table, took out a key and unlocked the deep drawer, lifting out a circlet of heavy gold. At its centre was a gold scarab, its exoskeleton marked with hieroglyphics.

  ‘This diadem belonged to Cleopatra,’ Lucretia Cutter said, taking the circlet from Gerard. ‘I’ve improved it. Cleopatra liked asps. There was a snake here.’ She pointed. ‘I have replaced the asp with the gold scarab that guarded the sarcophagus of Queen Nefertiti.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Novak whispered.

  ‘Do you know the Egyptians worshipped beetles? They believed the sun god was a dung beetle that rolled the sun across the sky.’ She lifted the circlet above her head. ‘And now the world will worship me.’ She settled it on her brow.

  ‘Worship you?’ Novak’s throat was dry.

  Lucretia Cutter turned to face her and Novak could barely breathe.

  Unimaginably tall, dressed in gold, the scarab crown on her brow, her black wings spread wide like an abominable angel, Lucretia Cutter removed her sunglasses, and her black unblinking eyes stared down. ‘Yes. Worship me.’

  Novak looked at the floor. Her whole body was trembling with fear. Was Mater planning to proclaim herself a god in front of the world at the Film Awards?

  ‘Now, put your dress on,’ Lucretia Cutter ordered.

  Novak went over to the rail and found Gerard beside her, helping her to step out of her nightie and into the black dress. ‘Sois courageuse,’ he whispered.

  ‘We’ll paint your eyelids black, and your lips gold,’ Lucretia Cutter said, as Gerard took out a second smaller circlet with a small gold heart scarab at the centre. ‘You’ll be the perfect accessory.’

  Gerard placed the gold crown on to her head and Novak looked at the mirror, horrified by what she saw. The black tassels that she’d thought were feathers were the dangling legs, mandibles and antennae of giant bombardier beetles.

  Lucretia Cutter came to stand beside her.

  Novak thought she was going to cry. The closeness of Mater and the black depths of her compound eyes terrified her.

  ‘Watch this,’ Lucretia Cutter said into the mirror. She moved her head in a strange snake-like side-to-side movement, making a clicking sound at the back of her throat, and Novak felt her dress shiver. The black beetle legs were attached to living insects, and they were stirring. They cycled their legs in a strange dance and the dress came alive, moving as if Novak were under water, or in gravity-less space. The effect was hypnotic.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Lucretia Cutter muttered to herself. She looked down at her daughter. ‘It’s time to let the world see who you really are, Novak.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Dumpster Motel

  Humphrey lifted up the dumpster lid with his head. He looked up and down the alleyway; there was no one about. ‘Coast’s clear,’ he growled to his cousin, whose rat-like face appeared at his elbow, looking about furtively.

  They’d ditched the stolen cab a few blocks away, running from the car only minutes before the police caught up with it. There was a row of dumpsters down an alleyway next to a Chinese food restaurant, and they had thrown themselves into one, deciding to stay hidden until the police had gone away.

  Humphrey was amazed and then delighted by the amount of food he found in the dumpster. Rooting around, he uncovered spring rolls, a tray of half-eaten spicy noodles and half a crispy duck. Chinese food was his favourite. He ate them all hungrily.

  It was Pickering who had pointed out that the black bin liners of rubbish made a reasonably soft bed. Seeing as they had no money until they found Lucretia Cutter, the pair of them had arranged the bin bags as comfortably as possible, salvaging anything edible and feasting on leftovers before falling asleep.

  They checked the map. They were only a block away from the Hollywood Theater.

  Humphrey clambered out of the bin and dusted himself down.

  ‘Pickers, hand me the case.’

  Thinking on his feet, Humphrey had grabbed a suitcase from the boot of the cab before they ran away. He knew they couldn’t show up at the awards ceremony dressed in ripped recycled clothes stinking of rubbish. Lucretia Cutter would never speak to them. He was hoping there’d be clean clothes inside the case that they could change into.

  Pickering pushed the case out of the dumpster. It dropped to the floor, bursting open. Humphrey bent over and rummaged around. There were slim pickings for a man of his size, but there was a black dinner suit. He lifted out the trousers and hung them over the bottom rung of a fire-escape ladder. He pulled on the white shirt. He could only do up one button, and the cuffs flapped around his chubby wrists. No cufflink was going to be long enough to fasten them. The jacket was tight and pulled his arms backwards, but he managed to get it on without ripping it. The man who owned the suit was short in stature but generous in girth, and when it came to the trousers, after taking a deep breath, Humphrey could just about manage to do them up, although they didn’t extend past his calves. With midriff, ankles and wrists bare, he nodded at the improvement.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Like the Incredible Hulk’s sickly cousin,’ Pickering spat, struggling to lift the lid and clamber out of the bin at the same time.

  Humphrey snorted and held the dumpster lid open. Pickering fell to the ground. ‘You’re going to have to wear this!’

  ‘What!’ Pickering leapt to his feet. ‘I’m not wearing that, I’ll look ridiculous.’

  ‘But this is all that’s left.’ Humphrey grinned.

  ‘There must be something else.’ Pickering pulled out knickers, a bathing suit, towels and toiletries. ‘Why can’t I wear the suit?’

  ‘Because it’s the only thing I can fit into,’ Humphrey guffawed.

  ‘Fine.’ Pickering snatched the garment out of his hand. ‘Turn around whilst I put it on.’

  Despite getting up with the sun and having only a block to walk, Pickering and Humphrey found that there were plenty of other people who’d stayed up all night, or slept on the pavement, to get a good spot outside the Hollywood Theater for the Film Awards. Crowds of people were gathered behind the cordon next to the red carpet, waiting to see – or perhaps even meet – their movie idols and to soak up the glamorous dresses and dapper suits. The entrance to the theatre was framed by film cameras and photographers with long lenses, on foot, on stools and on ladders.

  Humphrey pushed and shoved, trying to force his way into the crowd, but discovered Americans were not like the British; they didn’t take kindly to being pushed around, and they shoved him right back. People were staring at Pickering, who’d pulled up the skirt of the pink flowery dress he was wearing because it kept getting tangled around his ankles. He had one hand on his head, holding on a floppy straw hat, and his skirts yanked so high they exposed his hairy knees.

  ‘What category are you nominated for?’ someone shouted. ‘Ugliest dude in a dress?’

  The crowd erupted in roars of laughter.

  By the time the first cars started arriving, Humphrey and Pickering were stuck in the middle of the crowd with no way of moving forwards and no interest in going back. Each time a long black car pulled up at the end of the red carpet, Humphrey craned his neck to see if Lucretia Cutter stepped out of the vehicle. Pickering, intoxicated by the atmosphere, was gibbering excitedly, and Humphrey had turned sideways, hoping to disassociate himself from his scrawny cousin. Pickering resorted to talking to himself, occasionally giggling and waving his Muckminder like a ladies’ hankie at the people who were arriving early.

  The cousins were stupefied by the chiselled over-groomed stallion-like men who strutted past them in deftly-cut suits, swaggering and blowing kisses to the ladies. They had never seen such an array of Adonises. ‘Their teeth,’ Pickering gasped, pawing at Humphrey’s arm. ‘They’re so straight! So white!’

  Humphrey felt bashful, looking at the women, they were so pretty. They fluttered and floated by, sparkling and smiling lik
e ethereal creatures, elegant and lovely.

  Suddenly the crowd gasped and surged forwards. Humphrey and Pickering both strained to see what everyone was staring at.

  ‘It’s Snow White!’ an excited woman squealed, and the crowd echoed her.

  ‘Snow White! Snow White! Snow White!’

  A dainty woman, with platinum-blonde hair pinned up in kiss curls around her sultry face, lips a Cupid’s kiss of cherry red, accepted the hand of a be-suited gentleman and stepped out of the black limousine.

  ‘Ruby! Ruby! Over here!’ the photographers shouted.

  ‘Give us a smile, Ruby!’

  Flashbulbs popped and the crowd gasped as light ricocheted off Ruby Hisolo Jnr’s dress. She was so dazzling Humphrey could barely look at her, and yet he couldn’t look away. All he could focus on was the deep red of her perfect lips. She was a walking prism of pure light.

  The crowd was awed, as if an angel had fallen out of heaven.

  And then she was gone, inside the Hollywood Theater, and the world was grey once more. Humphrey longed for her to come back.

  Other actresses turned up, but people paid them little attention. The dazzling image of Ruby Hisolo Jnr was seared upon their eyeballs and it was all they could talk about.

  Humphrey began to get impatient. He didn’t like being trapped in the crowd, and he was hungry.

  ‘Where is she? Are you sure she’s coming?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s been in all the papers. She never goes to awards ceremonies. This will be the first.’ Pickering nodded frantically. ‘She’s coming. I know it. I can feel it.’

  Humphrey rolled his eyes.

  Another limousine arrived.

  ‘It’s her!’ someone cried, and there was a surge forwards.

  ‘Who?’ Humphrey asked several people around him. ‘Who’s arrived?’

  ‘It’s Stella Manning,’ replied a woman, who was so excited that she didn’t even turn round to see who she was talking to. ‘She’s the greatest actress who has ever lived.’ She screeched excitedly, clasping her hands to her chest. ‘She’s a chameleon, a miracle worker. I love her.’

  Humphrey puffed out a gasp of frustration. It wasn’t Lucretia Cutter, but he may as well see the greatest actress who has ever lived.

  A forest-green skirt flooded out of the car door, then a majestic woman stood up, thick red curls of waist-length hair falling over her shoulders, a circlet of burnished gold on her brow.

  ‘It’s Lady Macbeth!’ a young man gasped, his hands on his cheeks. ‘O-M-G! It’s stunning!’ He pretended to swoon.

  ‘I thought you said it was Stella Manning,’ Humphrey said to the woman, who was now desperately holding out an autograph book and pen.

  ‘It is. The dress is the Lady Macbeth, designed by Lucretia Cutter.’

  ‘Lucretia Cutter? Where?’

  ‘The dress, it’s designed by her.’

  Humphrey frowned. Why would anyone give a dress a name? He looked at Stella Manning who was parading regally along the red carpet towards him. The dress was mesmerising, constructed from a highly tailored sheer nude under-layer, showing off every curve and contour of Stella Manning’s body whilst giving her the posture of a female chieftain of a highland clan. The forest-green lace overlay was floor-length and adorned with pretty green shells, which were iridescent and gave the gown a royal purple tinge. Humphrey had to admit Lucretia Cutter was pretty good at making dresses.

  There were flashing bulbs, and Stella Manning lingered to talk to a woman with a microphone.

  ‘Where is she?’ Pickering was bouncing up and down like a child who’d eaten too many sweets. And then it arrived, the car that Humphrey had first seen outside their flat in Nelson Parade, more stylish than any limousine, a timeless classic shape hiding a powerful engine. The last time he’d seen Lucretia Cutter, she’d been bundled into that car and driven away by her chauffeur. He wondered how she’d got it to America – perhaps she had a fleet of them.

  The chauffeur walked around the iridescent car to the rear door and opened it. Humphrey leant forwards, licking his lips with anticipation. A dainty black claw with hook-like nails appeared, stepping down on to the red carpet, flashbulbs popped as a tiny girl got out of the car. The clawed feet belonged to her. She was dressed in black, her hair sculpted into a white bob. Her eyes were painted in a strip of black, and her lips shone gold, but it was those weird shoes that made Humphrey stare; they looked so much like black claws that he couldn’t see how a foot could fit in them. But then a larger, more vicious pair of claws stepped down on to the red carpet. Lucretia Cutter was getting out of the car, helped by a handsome man in a petrol-blue suit.

  The crowd drew breath, and then erupted into spontaneous applause.

  Lucretia Cutter was dressed head to toe in gold. She drew herself up, standing impossibly tall, towering above the man whose arm her hand was resting upon. Her sticks and lab coat were gone, but her trademark sunglasses and the black bob were still there, and a heavy gold crown sat on her head. She looked neither left nor right, and a reverent hush fell over the crowd as she glided along the red carpet, her daughter at her side.

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ Pickering shrieked at the top of his voice in the heart of the silence. ‘Lucretia, darling, it’s me. Pickering!’

  ‘And me!’ Humphrey bellowed. ‘Over here!’

  ‘Lucretia!’ Pickering shouted. ‘My sweet, I love you!’

  For a millisecond Humphrey thought he saw Lucretia Cutter bristle, but she continued moving forwards and didn’t look in their direction.

  ‘Oi!’ he roared. ‘We want our money!’ But now all the photographers were shouting too. ‘GIVE US OUR MONEY! YOU BURNT OUR HOUSE DOWN!’ Humphrey shouted, but he couldn’t make himself heard.

  Lucretia Cutter didn’t stop to sign one autograph, or do one interview.

  ‘Didn’t she hear us?’ Pickering asked forlornly. ‘She could at least have blown me a kiss.’

  ‘Sod this.’ Humphrey turned his back on the red carpet. ‘I’m done with waiting around. Let’s get in there and get our money.’

  ‘But how?’ Pickering whined, traipsing after Humphrey.

  ‘This place is a theatre,’ Humphrey said, as they walked to the corner. ‘It’s got to have other doors.’ They looked down the alley which led to the stage door. It was lined with security men in black suits. A man wheeling a trolley stacked with golden cages full of colourful, squawking birds was going in through the stage door.

  ‘We’ll never get in that way,’ Pickering said.

  ‘Then we’ll have to find a different way in,’ Humphrey replied, looking upwards.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Stage Door

  Novak gasped with delight as they entered the auditorium. The inside of the Hollywood Theater was an opulent palace of red velvet, crystal chandeliers and glittering gold trim. She was standing in the most famous theatre in the world. She felt a surge of determination, taking strength from the building. It was time for her to do the best acting of her life.

  She crossed her legs and started dancing around on the spot.

  ‘I need the bathroom.’

  Mater ignored her, so she looked at Bartholomew Cuttle with pleading eyes. ‘Please. I really need to go.’ She screwed her face up.

  ‘It’s probably the excitement,’ Darkus’s dad said to Mater. ‘You should let her go now, quickly, before it all begins.’

  ‘You’d better be in your seat when the awards start. Nominated actresses are all seated in the front row,’ Mater snapped, stepping forwards to receive the air-kisses and gushing gratitude of Stella Manning for her dress.

  Novak bowed her head and ran back into the foyer, desperately searching for someone who might help her.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The elderly usher looked down and smiled kindly.

  ‘How can I help you, Miss Cutter?’

  ‘You know my name!’ Novak fluttered her eyelashes and feigned bashful delight.

  ‘Why, everyone kn
ows your name, missy. You’re nominated.’

  ‘I know!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s my dream come true.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Only, well I was wondering if you might help me with something?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ He bent down so his head was at her height. ‘What can I get you? Some ice cream, perhaps?’

  ‘No sir. You see, the thing is, I do charity work, for the orphans of Los Angeles, and well, these orphans, see, they’re really poor. They never get to go to awards ceremonies or even watch them on TV, they are so very poor.’

  ‘Well, that is mighty good of you.’

  ‘Yes, except I promised some of these orphans, the really poorest ones, that they could watch the awards from the side of the stage. I know I shouldn’t have, but they were so excited when I told them about being nominated, and,’ she bit her lip and looked at the floor for a long moment, then fixed the old man with a wide-eyed sad look, ‘I can’t bear to let them down. They’ve been let down by every person they’ve ever known, their mummies and their daddies. They don’t even get to eat much chocolate.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The usher scratched his head. ‘I’m afraid the security here is tighter than the White House on Election Day.’

  ‘I know.’ Novak blinked tears into her eyes. ‘I’m so stupid. I didn’t realize how impossible it would be until I arrived and saw all the security.’ She sniffed. ‘They’re coming here because I told them to, and now I don’t know what to do.’ Her lip trembled and one solitary tear ran down her face.

  ‘Oh now, don’t cry. We can’t have you ruining your make-up.’

  ‘I don’t care about my make-up,’ Novak sobbed. ‘I don’t even care about these awards, I just wanted to give the poor children something incredible to remember for the rest of their lives, and now all they’ll remember is being turned away by scary men in suits, and how horrible I am!’

  ‘Now, now.’ The elderly usher pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Dry your eyes. Why don’t you follow me, and we’ll see if we can’t speak to my nephew.’