Killings on Jubilee Terrace Read Online Free

and other characters,and lots of dramatic scenes between him and me. Sheer hell – and millions of lines to learn.’
    James Selcott and Susan Fyldes – as Will and Dawn, much written about and photographed in Hello, Hi! and Girlie Talk magazines – sat towards the back, slumped in their pew, their faces a mingling of boredom, melancholy and contempt. It was in just such a mood that James, in reply to the inevitable question from a Hi! reporter as to whether there was ‘anything’ between him and Susan, had replied: ‘I can have any chick I want at the click of my fingers. Why should I settle for one?’ He had been not just ungrateful when Hi! tactfully suppressed the quote but convulsed with rage.
    ‘I loathe this sort of scene,’ said James, deciding that talking was the lesser of two evils. ‘Nothing to do, no point to make – not even the usual dim, soap-opera kind of point.’
    ‘I think,’ said the coy voice of an extra from the pew behind, ‘that you’re both meant to be sitting there wondering whether it will be your turn next.’
    ‘I’d rather die,’ said James and Susan simultaneously.
    Suddenly the congregation was hushed. The vicar had returned. He was not walking straight, neither was he looking penitent. And he could be smelt from the tenth row. Whatever he had puthis head under, it had not been water.
    ‘Dearly beloved,’ he yelled cheerily, producing a bottle from under his surplice, ‘we are tethered together—’
    ‘Right!’ said Reggie Friedman, marching forward. ‘That’s it! That’s the end! You’re de-frocked, or unsmocked, or whatever the damned word is. You’re fired!’
    ‘You can’t fire me,’ said the vicar, weaving joyously backwards to gain support from the altar. ‘How are you going to get this fucking pair married?’
    ‘They’ll get married if I have to do it myself.’ Reggie turned to two stalwart props men. ‘Get him out of here, get that bloody surplice off him, and boot him out of the church. And dig out some air-fresheners. The place smells like a distillery. We’ll be lucky if we don’t have to pay to have it reconsecrated.
    Without waiting to see whether his orders were obeyed (rather as Queen Victoria sat down without looking to see whether the chair was there, knowing it would be), Reggie strode down the aisle to the gaggle of drama students at the back of the church.
    ‘Right. How many of you have got Equity cards?’
    A straggling six or seven put up their hands, expressions of pathetic eagerness on their faces.
    ‘Men – it’s got to be a man.’
    ‘No it doesn’t,’ said an eager girl. ‘Women canconduct marriage services or do anything else you can name in the C of E these days.’
    ‘Not in Jubilee Terrace they can’t… Let’s see… You .’ Reggie pointed to a gangling youth, a beanpole six-foot body topped by a cherubic face. ‘Let’s hear your voice.’
    ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God—’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Stephen Barrymore.’
    ‘Good man. Might be lucky. Now, you’re on. Go to Make-Up in the vestry, then get the surplice on. It’ll be too short, but we’ll make do with close-ups of head and shoulders. And we’ll call you…let’s think…Kevin Plunkett. Right?’
    It was a fairy-tale transformation, the British equivalent of the waitress in the Hollywood soda-fountain . Stephen Barrymore would get national coverage in a top-of-the-viewing-figures episode of Terrace .
    The other students’ faces showed a mixture of wonder, delight and biliousness.
    Reggie, in the wait, improvised like the professional he was. He walked up the aisle, looking around him speculatively. He picked on Lady Wharton and the Kerridges, and sat down on his haunches in the aisle beside them, summoning cameras and sound equipment in a lordly manner with his hands.
    ‘Something to paper over the change,’ he said. ‘Why isn’t the usual vicar doing the service? What’s the best line? Has he