Free What Bloody Man Is That by Simon Brett

who grabs a bit of Birnham Wood, and then, with a change of allegiance which might have confused an actor of more Stanislavskian approach, one of Macbeth’s army who runs away as the tide of battle turns.)
    All the cast logged in their overtime with the theatre administration. To Charles this still seemed strange. Though he approved of much of what Equity had done to improve actors’ working conditions, and though he always welcomed a little extra money, this unionised clock-watching seemed dangerously closer to the world of the Civil Service than the theatre. Charles felt wistfully nostalgic for the days of weekly rep. Then you worked ridiculous hours, you moaned and groaned and complained about it all the time, but the feeling of mutual exhaustion kept everyone on a permanent high, pumping adrenaline at a rate he had never since encountered.
    Still, those days were gone. Now there were rules fixing the permissible hours of work, and those rules had to be obeyed.
    Stewart Phipps’ scene was blocked first thing on the Friday morning, as Gavin had intended. It didn’t take long. Stewart spoke the rather prissy lines of Macduff’s Son with commendable animation, and was clearly going to relish the moment of his death, when he was despatched by John B. Murgatroyd (as the First Murderer) with the immortal words,
    â€˜What! you egg, Young fry of treachery!’
    But the boy didn’t leave straight after his scene. The theatrical atmosphere patently excited him, and he gazed from the auditorium with sparkling eyes, taking in everything that was going on.
    â€˜Shouldn’t you be getting back to school?’ Charles asked just before they broke for lunch, but the boy said, ‘No. They won’t mind. They aren’t to know how long I’m actually needed for rehearsal.’
    Charles shrugged. It wasn’t his business. And Sandra Phipps, whose business in her dual role of mother and chaperon it certainly was, spent most of the day in the Box Office and was either unaware of, or unworried by, her son’s continuing presence.
    So, by the end of the Friday, every move in the play had been gone through at least once. All was set for the Saturday morning run-through – though the less optimistic definitions of stagger-through, lurch-through, hobble-through, stumble-through or even tumble-through, became increasingly likely to be apt.
    The advantage of doing a full run so prematurely was that at least everyone in the cast got an idea of what they were up against.
    Felicia Chatterton, who had given up remonstrating about the folly of running the play so soon, approached the exercise with her customary seriousness, and was to be found at nine-thirty on the Saturday morning in the middle of the stage, working through a series of yoga postures and breathing exercises. She felt that proper preparation was always essential in acting, even just for a first run.
    Beside her on the stage, shadowing her every movement, and with his face set in an expression of equal reverence, was her faithful dog – or perhaps puppy – Russ Lavery.
    The other actors who trickled into the auditorium may have grinned covertly at what they saw on stage, but at least they restrained themselves from outright sniggering. Though they didn’t all favour such intensity of approach for themselves, they were a tolerant lot. If that’s how Felicia wanted to work, fair enough, it didn’t cause any trouble.
    â€˜Oh, Christ love,’ hissed John B. Murgatroyd to Charles in a voice of agonised campness, ‘how can Gavin expect me to give a performance at this kind of notice? My body-clock’s all set wrong for a start. And then, although I did all my Lennox exercises before I left the digs, I just haven’t had time to do my First Murderer workout.’
    â€˜You think you’ve got problems, sweetie,’ Charles murmured back in matching style. ‘I tell you, I’ve been up half the