The Autograph Collector

She never intended to harm him, she just wanted to meet him again. She was convinced they had made a connection – but this time she wanted more than just an autograph.

December 11^th 2001 – Hollywood

Helen’s room was always dark.

She had kept the curtains closed since the day her mother died.

She no longer trusted the outside world.

He smiles out from a collage of photos captured by the paparazzi. He is climbing out of a car. Waving from the deck of a yacht. His distinctive smile trapped in a thousand images frozen in time. She kneels on the floor naked, rocking gently on her heels. She smiles back at him conspiringly. She is happy in her dark shrine, her mind shifting between visions of her mother, and him. Sometimes the visions fuse, and she fights to keep them apart. He lies next to her, his head on the pillow, his hands in her hair. She pretends to resist as he holds her down, one arm across her neck. She lets him to do whatever he wants, and never questions her sense of reason. She simply believes her obsession is born of passion.

They first met in the flower shop where she worked in Beverly Hills. It was three months ago to the day. It was early morning, before they had heard the terrible news. Their eyes met at the same instant, Helen glancing up from a box she was opening, and him, just turning his head, so he looked directly at her. He smiled, and explained the flowers were for his mother. His eyes were colourless, yet dominant like light or fire. Helen could not look away, she remained transfixed. She felt ashamed of her appearance, her old blue skirt and the humiliating flat shoes.

He appeared smaller than he did on-screen, and his hair flopped over his forehead. He smiled at her, tilting his head, then asked if the flowers could be gift-wrapped. His security guard pushed a credit card into her hand. A small crowd was beginning to form outside the shop, and she felt a wave of panic engulf her. She nodded and tried to smile, but somehow her face remained impassive. She could feel the warmth of his stare as she fumbled with the wrapping but could not look up. When she had finished, he took the flowers from her, and there followed a moment of silence as she finally found the courage to meet his gaze. In that moment, time stood still, and a new world was born around her, like a bright forest with a million shimmering leaves.

She took a shower and then fussed with her hair. This time, she thought, I am going to wear something that pleases him. She knew the sort of woman he preferred, she had seen the photographs. She chose the black silk dress she had worn for her mother’s funeral, and teamed it with the pearls bought from Nordstrom. She gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She climbed the stairs to her mother’s room and stared at the solid oak door which could only be locked from the outside. She smiled to herself as she slowly caressed the wood, and then opened the top draw of the bedside cabinet and took out the gun. It was a Ruger 380 Automatic, just small enough to fit into her purse.

She walked north on Wilcox and took a right on Sunset Boulevard. She glanced up at the ArcLight cinema and saw his face staring down from the billboard, crowding out her sky. The sun was warm for December, and she felt a shiver run down her spine as if her heart were about to burst.

The bar was already dark and lit by small candles. She took a stool and ordered a Jack Daniels and coke. The television was on mute as she watched the grim face of President Bush at a memorial ceremony in Washington. She read his words on the screen.

“We’ll remember where we were and how we felt. We will remember the dead and what we owe them. We will remember what we lost and what we found. Every death extinguished a world.”

She began to feel her second drink and recalled the place her mother had sent her when she was little. They called it an orphanage, yet it was merely a halfway house. A place where children waited for their parents to collect them – like left luggage. She never knew her father, and her mother was already famous, making movies. The star who didn’t want the world to know she had a child, in case it hampered her career. Helen had spent the morning downstairs, waiting in the playroom, listening for her mother’s footsteps on the lino. She listened for the sound of her voice, the hint of perfume, anything that was part of her. The hours slipped by as she sensed her childhood recede. Her mother never showed, and in the end she came to represent nothing more to Helen than a ghostly face in the corner of her past, shrouded in mist and misery. She desperately needed to assuage the hollow feelings of rejection. The last time she saw her mother she was running through the woods, towards the lake. The sun was going down and the sky was a roasted pink hue and she could smell her on the wind. Like the scent of death.

She asked the bartender to call her a cab. In the back of the car she tidied her hair and clutched her purse to her chest. There was a change in her, a definite shift. She did not feel angry anymore. She felt the need for justice, and for some form of closure on the past. She wanted to forgive, but not forget. The driver let her out at the top of Beechwood Drive. The sun was starting to set and she sensed the closeness of his house. She knew how to approach the grounds from the rear. She shivered, and walked quickly not bothering to look behind her. She failed to notice the tiny camera in the tree that tracked her progress. She squeezed through a gap in the bushes and made her way up the lawn as the darkening sky provided refuge from prying eyes. She glimpsed a shadow in the pool house and moved quickly into the trees. She had hardly reached the trees when the pool house door opened, and steps sounded on the black marble tiles. She watched him as he knelt by the pool. A burst of light lit up his face, and he stood and stared down at the light with absent fascination. Perhaps thirty feet separated them. Suddenly he lifted his eyes, his lips parted and he was looking directly at her.

‘How do you like my garden Helen?’ He framed the question as if he actually knew her. She felt the tears come into her eyes and struggled to compose herself.  She gripped her purse, conscious of the weight of the gun. She wasn’t sure if he had really spoken her name. In an involuntary gesture of surrender and apology, she raised an arm and started towards him. She felt she had to throw herself at his mercy. She spoke softly. ‘I wanted to see the gardens. So much has changed since I last saw you. I hope I didn’t startle you.’

He smiled and looked directly into her soul. He began to walk towards her as he spoke.

‘The whole world has changed Helen. Now we tend to think about our mortality. What happened in September was us witnessing the world spiralling out of control. Have you seen my new movie? That’s the premise, mortality. You should see it. I’m rather good in it. I would be proud if it were my last movie. My last testament. There has to be an end to everything. And you Helen, why are you here tonight? Your mother died on 9/11 didn’t she? I read about it. I saw you on the television. I remember you on that morning, fussing with the flowers. Scrutinising me. Why did you come here tonight? Do you imagine that because we met on the morning of that dreadful day we developed some form of unique bond, that we are somehow inextricably linked by fate? You may well be right.’

They were standing side by side and Helen searched his face. She sensed a sudden threat. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her towards the house. He walked slowly as he talked. ‘Let me show you the house. Did you know it once belonged to Charlie Chaplin? Yes, he built it. It was a magnificent gothic mansion in those days but he allowed it to fall into disrepair. He had no money left. Robert Downey Jnr tried to buy it but I got there first. So it fell to me to save this house from ruin. I bought it from a writer called Norris Nutley. He died here sadly, and the gardens had not been touched for years. There was a lot of work. I had to cut everything back and re-plant. In the end I gave it a new life, a new beginning. These Jacarandas are the only surviving trees.’

She looked up at his face, and although she didn’t want to, she smiled at him and nodded.

He stopped abruptly and faced her. ‘You must be cold. Come and sit by the fire pits.’ She followed him onto the wide open terrace that overlooked the pool. She could see into the house. It was stark and angular. Black and white, with art deco mirrors adorning the walls. She felt as if she already knew the place and somehow belonged there. She had set out with a plan and allowed herself to be drawn in by him. She was struggling to maintain control. He was standing just inside, beside a small drinks bar.

‘He raised his voice a little. ‘Would you like to drink some wine?

She looked up and saw only his shadow. ‘Yes…Thank you.’

It was almost dark as he placed the drinks on the small table. He sat close to her and she searched his face for clues. She was biding her time. Gauging his mood. He appeared confident and in control – acting as if he knew her intimately. He took a cigarette from a silver case on the table and lit it, staring straight ahead towards the pool.

‘Why did you come here?’

Helen glanced down nervously at her purse and struggled to focus. Why not now? She thought. Why not do it now? She looked up slowly and smiled at him. ‘I just wanted to see you. To see how you felt. I was curious, I suppose.’

The sky was now an inky black, the air filled with a chorus of cicadas. He reached over and rested a hand on her arm. His face was so close she could smell his skin, and she struggled to hold his gaze. She felt balanced on a thin edge. The decision suspended in thin air. There was a deadness in the silence between them, and Helen grew more uneasy. She looked in his face, smiling. To Helen it was perfect, she just wanted to be there, in his house with him. She felt as if she suddenly existed. They sat facing each other waiting on the moment, unaware they were both concealing their true intentions. In the silence that followed he refilled their glasses. He stubbed out his cigarette. He was staring at her now, anticipating her next move. Waiting for her to speak. Then, out of nowhere, a cat sprung up and onto her lap, knocking her purse to the floor with a dull thud. He stood, and began to laugh. ‘I see you have met Bozley. He came with the house. He has this gift of knowing who likes him, he seems to have made his mind up about you.’ He reached down slowly for the purse and held it out towards her. The cat coiled around and then settled on her lap. The pale yellow eyes stared up at her knowingly, as if conveying a warning.

He placed the purse on the table between them, so they could both see it. He moved closer and gently stroked her face.

‘You used to collect autographs didn’t you Helen?’

‘No…but my mother did. She became obsessed with you in the end. I think you know that.’

She studied his face. It was serious now.

‘Do you collect anything?’ She asked.

He smiled menacingly…

‘Only fans.’

Somewhere in her head she heard a door slam, and the sound of a key being turned in the lock. She was overcome with a feeling of sickness, and at the same time a sense of calm surrender engulfed her body. It was too late to fight, and she succumbed to the darkness. The last thing she remembered he was cradling her in his arms, carrying her down the steps towards the cellar. She could smell a dampness in the air. The last thing she saw was him holding up her empty purse to the sky and she opened her mouth to scream.