Summary: Sam Tyler sees dead people. (warning: spoilers for season 2, episode 4 and The Exorcist :P)
FLICKS—chapter one
"Do you think you'll get scared?"
The cinema was packed to full capacity, a rarity that Sam hadn't experienced since he was a kid going to see The Empire Strikes Back. His Aunt Helen had taken him, and he'd strained to see over a large-haired woman in her thirties, hairspray molecules mingling with his popcorn. That was possibly the last time he'd truly felt the magic of a movie theatre, the quiet hush that overcame the audience as the thick, red velvet curtains opened in complex layers, revealing the massive window into another world beneath.
"Blimey, it's crowded. I wouldn't have thought so, what with it being the day after Christmas and all." Annie precariously balanced her tub of popcorn on her arm, her steps wobbly as the theatre porter shone his flashlight ahead of them, guiding them to an empty set of seats. Sam was behind her, brandishing a couple of cups of flat, sickly sweet soda, stray popcorn kernels getting stuck in the ridges on the soles of his shoes. He tried to kick them off, but only succeeded in shaking loose a bit of soda which now dribbled down the side of the cup. He could feel the corn kernel properly wedged, like a piece of glass or a stubborn pebble, and it made his steps uncomfortable, if not downright slippery on the painted concrete floor beneath them.
Annie had settled comfortably in a seat near the middle, and Sam sat beside her. There was a mutual exchange of soda, popcorn and shy smiles all around.
"Funny, them playing a film like this just the day after Christmas, don't you think? It's hardly uplifting. Considering the subject matter, I wouldn't half wonder why people would get upset."
Sam shrugged at Annie's observation. "We didn't have to come and see it," he said.
"Oh no, Sam, we had to! We simply had to!" Her eyes were dancing in the half light of the theatre, an animation within them that belied the intense intelligence that always hovered just on the surface of her person like a layer of soft, pink lipstick. "The papers have had a right time with it, and all my friends have been talking of it. I'd feel a right fool if I didn't get in some framework for my own opinions."
"Controversy has always been a good hook," Sam said.
"I don't know about being controversial. I just want a good scare, is all." Annie eagerly shivered in her seat. "I love a good adrenaline rush. Scary movies are like a roller coaster, only you can enjoy them better on cold, rainy days."
Sam took a sip of his flat soda, enjoying the proximity of his arm against Annie's, her warmth and eager expectation infectious. He fought the urge to drape his arm around her shoulders, knowing he had to drive the thought that they were out on a date from his mind. Annie's arm pulled away from his as she checked her watch, and Sam's ease began to whittle away. Annie sat up in her seat at an uncomfortable angle, her head turned as she scanned the back rows of the theatre, in particular the white sliver that betrayed the entrance into the dark space.
"Where are they? The flicker is going to start in a minute."
"I'm sure they'll be here soon," Sam said, his happy mood deflated. He dug into his popcorn, its oily surface smearing his fingers, making his touch slippery.
"The big chickens. I'll bet they don't show," Annie said, and a sudden hope cheered Sam. She settled back in her seat, and Sam wondered just how foolish would it be to pretend to stretch and let his arm rest behind the back of her chair, to simply let it lie there as though it were more comfortable for him, not necessarily a sign he was making a move. He felt more than a little foolish at his trepidation, wondering just when the moment had happened that Annie's proximity reduced him to a shy, nervous kid on a first date.
Well, at least he wouldn't be getting sick on her, he thought, feeling a pang of empathy for Chris.
At the very thought of his peer, a curse sprung out into the near darkness, and hope was destroyed as the lumbering figure of Ray sauntered in, Chris trailing behind him with the entire load of popcorn, drinks, and a few candy bars somehow collected in his gangly grip. Chris overtook Ray and eagerly made his way to Sam, popcorn and soda raining from his arms and onto the seats and floor around him. He sat nervously into the seat beside Sam, his eyes already wide with terror as he stared at the heavy red curtains, clearly expecting to be mortified in more ways than he could possibly imagine.
"Hey boss," Chris said, his voice small. Scared.
Ray plunked himself easily into the seat beside Chris, a box of red licorice candies noisily shaken as he popped them ten at a time into his mouth. He still managed to eat and chew gum at the same time, a feat of digestive physics that was yet to be fully explained. He shifted his weight into the seat, forcing comfort despite the fact his suit jacket was ill-fitted, and his bright blue trousers were far too tight. His socks were bunched around his ankles, a pair of brown argyles that wanted nothing to do with the rest of his ensemble.
"Looking forward to this all week." He popped a few dozen more candies into his mouth and then leaned over to leer at Annie. "Don't you worry, love. If you gets too scared you can come and sit on your pal Ray's lap." He slapped his too tight, bright blue thigh and laughed.
"The movie ain't even started and I got the creeps," Annie retorted.
A bowl of popcorn was handed to Ray, who commenced a renewed feat of eating mastery as he chewed gum, swallowed remnants of red hot candies and proceeded to fill his face with greasy popcorn. He washed the entire mixed concoction down with a good gulp of soda, an action which released a massive belch.
"Bloody disgusting," Sam said, wincing. "How old are you, Ray, ten?"
"Just getting rid of some nervous tension," he said, hitting his heart with his fist.
The method certainly wasn't working for Chris, who didn't touch his popcorn or his drink, though they both remained perched on his thin knees, his hands firm on the cardboard. "Haven't been to the cinema in ages," Chris confessed, his voice still nervous. "Last flick I saw was White Lightning. Bloody good actor that Burt Reynolds. He's a bit of genius, him. He ought to have won an Oscar for that performance."
Sam kept his mouth firmly shut, not wanting to burst Chris's bubble of movie star worship with the fact that Reynolds was far better in the film Deliverance, a flick that would no doubt scar Chris in ways that would be both cruel and unusual to his psyche.
"How about you, Sam. What was the last flick you saw?" Annie stole a couple of his popcorn, her eyes mischievous as she tossed the fluffy white kernels into her mouth.
Sam was quiet a long moment. A measure of shame had overtaken him, and again he found himself feeling empathy for Chris, if only to beat up his own judgmental stance of good versus bad films and offer himself some token of forgiveness.
"Snakes On A Plane," he said, at last.
"Oh? Haven't heard of that one. Is it scary?"
Memories crowded in on him, and if he closed his eyes he could actually see the too close for comfort seats, his legs cramped against the back of the one in front of him, the screen a blank, unadorned silver rectangle. The air had been thick with stale vegetable oil and bubble gum. He hadn't wanted to go, but Maya had insisted on a night out, that they hadn't done anything together in too long, that their relationship was at risk, they were drifting apart. So, he'd agreed, and ended up sitting cramped and unhappily wedged behind two chavs who talked non-stop on their cell phones for the entire duration of the film, their conversation only marginally more interesting than the fact that Samuel L. Jackson was desperately trying to create a cult classic out of an obvious B-movie.
He'd had a huge fight with Maya outside the cinema when it was all over. He was accused of being a wet blanket, a bloody bore.
"Worst two hours of my life," he said, truthful.
/
The crowd in the cinema had settled in, a gentle quiet overcoming the theatre as people stared at the screen, transported into a world of someone else's making, a nightmare which they could voyeuristically enjoy. Sam tested the greasy popcorn as he took a few kernels, and felt a queasy understanding meet his gut. His gall bladder was not enjoying the 'butter topping', in fact it seemed to be grinding in protest at the very scent of the suspicious oily residue. He gingerly placed the popcorn tub on the floor near his feet, and pushed it with his heel beneath his chair. There, one medical emergency possibly averted.
It was during one of the opening scenes, where the priest took a tumble down a flight of Mesopotamian stairs, when the grumbling began behind him. A couple of exclamations of 'Arsehole!' and 'Ach, me foot!' disturbed the brewing suspense on screen, and several heads turned towards Sam, who could feel the red capillaries of embarrassment creep along his neck and up towards his cheeks. An elbow painfully met the back of his skull, and he whipped around, shamed fury wanting him to lash out and give Gene a good jab in the kidneys for his oafish entrance. Gene's popcorn rained down on Sam's shoulders, and his very large soda dripped sugary dew onto Sam's scalp.
"Sit the bloody well down!"
"Bloody rude bastard!"
"Hey, shut your gob you zit-faced little shite! I'm moving in here, so if you can't see go and get your Mum to bring in a phone book to sit on! Snotty little pisser..."
"Piss off!"
Popcorn rained in a torrent on Sam and Annie as a scuffle ensued behind them, one which quickly grew from two people into several. Gene's soda spilled over Sam's shoulder, drenching him in sugar water.
"Come on!" Sam loudly protested.
A bright light suddenly illuminated Gene's face, and he blinked into it, a hand held up to blot it out. Behind the flashlight, a young but stern theatre porter remained unmoved by Gene's ire.
"Get in your damned seat and shut up. Have some respect for the rest of the goers, or you're getting the kick."
Gene reluctantly let the fight go, but not without a cheap shot at the young man sitting behind him. He sank into his seat noisily, what was left of his popcorn grabbed into a fist that was in turn ferociously attacked by his big mouth. He gave Sam a smart backhand to the back of his head. "Here. See that smart little bastard, getting all high and mighty on company procedures. The whole world is turning into you. This is a bloody horror."
"Good to see you've made it, Guv," Annie whispered up to Gene.
"What, and miss the gates of Hell open up the minute this piece of shit's over? Not for the bloody world, love. I can't wait to give a good kicking to Beelzebub myself."
"Shhhh!" three blue haired ladies four rows ahead hissed back at him. Gene gave them the finger. They turned around to face the screen, disgusted. One of the grannies mumbled 'cocksucker'.
"Ironic, that," Sam said, under his breath. He tried to wipe the remnants of the pop from his leather jacket, which was now decidedly sticky.
Gene leaned close to Sam's ear, perhaps wary of that SS theatre porter coming back to send him marching.
"What is?" he asked Sam.
"You know who Beelzebub is, but you couldn't remember Jesus."
"Who?"
"Mr. Camel-through-the-needle."
"Oh, yeah. Moses." Gene shoved another noisy handful of popcorn into his mouth.
"Jesus," Sam insisted.
Annie punched Sam painfully on the shoulder. "Quit the cursing, won't you, this here's a Catholic flick! The crowd will properly riot if you don't mind your language!"
"Just got out of mass an hour ago myself," Chris added on the other side of him. "Keep that talk low, boss. Annie's right, they'll crucify you."
"My God," Sam said, pinching the headache brewing nastily between his brow.
"What's He got to do with anything?" Gene asked, utterly confused.
/
Sam was fighting to stay awake, the theatre a quiet womb of unbridled terror as Linda Blair puked another round of pea soup across the screen. He yawned and shifted in his seat, a greasy scratching sensation irritating his lower back. Some of the popcorn Gene had spilled on Sam had made their way down the back of his shirt, and now lay crushed like stiff Styrofoam against his back. He sighed, and chanced a glance at Chris beside him, who was stock still, his face a decidedly ghastly pallor that suggested he was ready to spew a few things himself. On the far left of him, Ray had a popcorn kernel in his hand that never quite made it to his mouth. He was frozen in terror, his eyes so wide they looked about ready to burst.
For Sam, The Exorcist, like all horror movies and their progeny, held very little by way of a thrill. His own preferences in film making veered toward documentaries, usually true crime police procedurals and the odd political investigation. Linda Blair's head spun around, and a shocked gasp erupted over the entirety of the theatre. Sam felt bored and underwhelmed. He'd seen worse on the telly when he watched CSI or old X-Files reruns. A child possessed by an evil demon felt naïve to Sam, a glossing over of what he had long known to be true. It was human beings who had the worst capacity for evil, and with very little help from forces beyond their control. In his working experience, the worst devils had been masters at disguising their true forms. Clean, neat, perfectly well mannered, they could easily feign concern all the while killing without guilt, without revealing even a hint of the monster laying in wait. True predators. Crocodiles in the still waters.
How easy his job would be if all of his monsters were like Pazuzu—Scabby, swearing and obvious.
He slouched in his seat, trying to shake the popcorn kernels in his shirt to a spot where they were less uncomfortable. Annie's hand found his arm, and lightly squeezed. Her warm touch sent a balm of calm throughout his discomfort, and he allowed himself to relax against it. He had to consider it again, his arm around the back of her chair. He raised his hand as if decisive, only to end up rubbing the back of his neck in further thought.
A small shadow momentarily blocked his view of Linda Blair's bloated and torn face. Sam watched the thin, tiny form find the seat in front of him, and settle down into it. Sam's arm did not find the back of Annie's seat, absorbing the comfort and joy of the season within it. Instead, he reached towards the seat in front of him, an insidious, rising instinct eating away at his boredom.
There was a little boy in the seat directly in front of him, an incongruous placement within his current setting that would have likewise been unheard of in 2006, let alone 1973. The child couldn't be more than five years old, Sam noted, and even in his own time line The Exorcist was hardly a film for preschoolers. He scanned the theatre, neck craning for a vision of the boy's parent or guardian to come panic stricken into the theatre, searching out a lost child. Perhaps he had wandered out of the Disney movie next door and a frantic mother or father was searching for their missing child in the flickering dark.
"Bloody disgusting," Gene said.
Sam rolled his eyes. "It's obvious he's just wandered in from the film next door. He's lost."
"Saying utter shit like that, little mite like her. That director ought to be shot."
The movie. Gene was talking about the movie.
"She didn't say it at all. It was a voice actress they'd hired who did," Sam said, absently. He dared to reach across to the boy in the seat in front of him. "Hey, where are your parents at? Where's your Mum?"
The little boy turned, revealing huge brown eyes and a tangled mop of thick, black hair. He held a tiny finger to his lips. "Shhh," he said.
"You shouldn't be here. This movie's for grown-ups, and I'm betting your Mum is right frantic about now, looking for you. Come on, let's go next door and see if we can find her."
The boy remained in his seat, his huge brown eyes staring blankly back at Sam, as though he were speaking a language that could never be understood.
"Piece of bloody garbage, that's what this shit is," he heard Gene grumble behind him.
"Oh damn...Oh damn..." Chris said, hands over his eyes, fingers slightly splayed so he could still see the horror that had transfixed him.
"Christ on a cracker..." Ray murmured over his frozen kernel of popcorn.
"Come on lad, we'll get your Mum," Sam repeated.
He touched the boy's shoulder, and drew his hand back when a warm, wet substance met his fingers. He puzzled over the residue he'd taken from the touch, his thumb rubbing against the pads of his fingers, smearing its sticky, thick, black substance.
Blood.
"My God," Sam said, panic rising in his voice. He grabbed the boy's shoulder more forcefully this time, his fingers drenched as they literally sank into the boy's skin.
The boy turned to look at him once more. 'His head has a funny shape,' Sam thought. 'Like half of it's just deflated, or dented. Like a stomped on soda can.'
Crack!
The boy's head sank further in on itself. His small jaw dangled against his neck, shattered from the invisible impact.
Crrr. Crrr.
Two more implosions and his teeth spilled in a blood stream from his mouth, one surprised brown eye popped wide out of the socket.
Crack!
The top of his skull split, the grey ridged lines and contours of his brain in sharp relief against his blood matted black hair. He slumped in his seat, his tiny body compacted within it. Both of Sam's hands were firm on the back of the chair, blood seeping between his fingers in thick, sticky globs not unlike pudding.
"Relax, Sam, it's only a movie," he heard Annie's concerned voice say somewhere in the distance.
She couldn't see the mess in front of him, Sam realized. No one could.
He chanced a further inspection and leaned over the back of the seat in front of him. The boy remained crumpled and bloody in the seat, a foul iron stench overcoming the air around him.
He bolted from his seat and ran out of the theatre, heedless of who he stepped on in the process. He didn't stop running until he made it outside, into the afternoon sunlight. The chill winter air stirred the blue and red garland that decorated the movie posters displayed at the main front entrance. 'Joy to the World' in bright purple cardboard lay broken in half and dangling beneath the poster for The Exorcist. He staggered to the trash can not far from it at the corner and, gripping its rim, he vomited into it.