MIKE PARKER

The stuntman

It was never quite the same after I died. As a stuntman I’d died hundreds of times before but they weren’t real. This was. Apparently, I was clinically dead for four minutes and they shouldn’t have continued trying to revive me. But you know what these doctors are. When I came round, miracu- lously there was no brain damage, so I was back at work within six weeks. Which is how I like it.

Anyway. What happened was, I was shooting this car chase scene, where I’m the

husband who’s cleared off without paying his alimony. (A US movie of course.) His wife is chasing him in the car behind. Well, Corrin, my co-stunt director, was driving the car, dressed up in a wig and dress and he decides to put the pressure on and make it a mega-scene. Being competitive I responded and that’s how the accident occurred. When I came back to life again, I went round and broke his nose for being so stupid and not sticking to the script. He didn‘t mind. He’d expected some retaliation.

Death’s dead strange. I got all those things people go on about. Like bright lights and doors ajar. I met this bloke who was me, with a white gown on and he told me I was a superficial person. Like looking in the mirror at the barber’s with a hangover. I don’t waste my time worrying about such trivial things. I‘m a doer.

Anyhow. Those kind of things aren’t unusual in my life. I mean, I get visited by

ghosts, now and again. Three of them. Two of them are dead relatives, who are just as much a pain in the backside as when they were alive. The third one’s a parrot that belonged to a French magician and it comes and sits on the wardrobe saying, Allez Oop and Voilh, Le Lapin, over and over.

Another frequent occurrence in my life are visitations. Actually they used to be frequent: not so much nowadays. But angels would come and visit me in the night. Until I told one to clear off because I’m not religious. I told it: what’s the point of believing in something you can’t see? Doesn’t make any sense.

When I was fully recovered, I had to fly on to Thailand to do some work on a thriller. During the flight, a hijacker jumped up with a grenade and threatened to blow the plane up. Luckily some baggage fell off the rack behind him and knocked him out. I didn’t see. I was asleep at the time and the business man next to me told me when I woke up.

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First thing I did when I arrived at the hotel was ring my mate Gregory. He likes me to report anything weird that happens to me. He’s a writer. He appreciates me because he thinks I’m practically subnormal. He said to me once:

’You’ve had just about every important experience a human being can have , , . and yet you’re completely untouched by it all. Most people crave the opportunities which have been given to you to understand.’

Gregory takes it all too seriously. There you go. Still, I always ring him. A bit of self-interest there: women go for him. If you go out boozing for a night with him, you’re usually in for a good time. He peppered me with questions on the phone. What piece of luggage was it, what angle did it fall at, what was the look on the hijacker’s face, how did the passengers react?

’I don’t bloody know,‘ I said. ’I told you I was asleep.’ ’If anything else happens. Try and stay awake. Please. And Sean. Don‘t

‘I’ll keep it down to mutilation, if I can.’ I laughed. ’What’s the film?’ ‘A Bond-type thing . . . international drugs rings, espionage, nuclear

dofangers, some revolution or other.’ ‘Sounds like five films not one.’ ‘Like that these days . . . I reckon they do it to get bigger audiences.’ ’They’ll be throwing in cookery hints as well, at this rate, to attract the

suburban cuisine buffs. See you when you get back.’ By the time I got onto the location set the next day, the film was in

disarray. I was supposed to be in charge of a stunt team: three Australians. Problems though. Two of them had gone for a dayhip to a local monastery and hadn’t come back. They’d rung the Director and said they’d been ’deeply influenced’ by the Buddhist monks there. They weren’t coming back. Daft buggers. There must be cheaper ways of getting a short hair cut. You see people get attached to things - over-involved.

I agreed to share the stunts with the leftover bloke. It meant more work but we’d get bigger credit titles, we were promised. To prove it, the Director telephoned the Graphic Designer in America and he even asked me down the line what typeface I’d like. I’m not a prima donna, so I said I’d have the same as everyone else. Shooting went ahead. It was going great guns until I had to fall off this ravine into a safety net. Stunts are about planning and experience and technical stuff: not superstition. So what happens? The Director decides that the assembled cast should stand around and pray for me.

Kiss of Death. It just tempts fate. I did everything right. I leapt at the right angle. I curled into my tuck at the correct time. Yet, 1 still missed the

die this time.’

The stuntrnan 53

net. Down I piummeted to certain Death, thousands of feet below. How- ever, the moment I was out of sight of the camera, two angels appeared. One of them was the angel I’d told to clear off six months earlier, as it happens. They took me under the armpits and steered me to a protruding branch and hung me up like washing on it. Search helicopters found me two hours later. And you know what, the Director thought I’d been saved because of his prayers. Rank ignorance, if you ask me.

The only person I told the truth to was Gregory, who got dead excited. More questions: what was God up to, why had he chosen to intervene in History through me, what was the overall plan of it? I told him, it’s no good asking me, I don’t hold with all that mumbo-jumbo and incense and the like. You’ve got to stand on ymr own two feet in this life.

A week later, we moved the whole show over to Africa to shoot some different scenes. Really, the scenes were supposed to be in the saine place as the Thailand ones -- in the film that is. But things don’t join up that easily in films. Like they don‘t in life. Or rather they can in films and don‘t in life. Two days into the filming I met these local quads. Four blokes: identical. Not only that, they were identical to me. It was almost weird. Especially since they weren’t white.

Strictly speaking, they weren’t black either. They had mixed parentage. It was said they were the sons of a missionary who used to work there. Made me think. My father cleared off when I was three. Could‘ve been him. After all they were dead ringers for me. Everyone commented on it. I rang Gregory as usual to tell him about it and he said:

‘You realise that when doppelgangers meet, one or the other has to die.’ ‘What‘s a doppelganger?’ ‘Your Double.’ More superstitious drivel. However, I did go down with Malaria the next

morning and tossed about in a fever for gawd knows how long. During my delirium, a head kept swimming in and out of view. It was a vicar of some sort. He announced himself as the local inissionary and told me he was my long lost old man. He kept begging me for forgiveness and explaining why he’d left and asking me to release him from his guilt.

I just thought: What does any of this mean to me? It’s his affair. 1 didn’t want to know about the whys and wherefores. I think I did console him though. I might have said that I wouldn’t not buy him a drink if I ever bumped into him in a bar. Which is fair enough. People always want to probe too deep.

On my return to England, I met up with Gregory and we went out for our usual binge. He insisted on reviewing everything that had happened to me since we last got drunk. He seemed impressed with the list. Me, I

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couldn’t care less. Then, he suggested I should write my life story. What the hell for? Who wants to read about other people’s lives? I don’t. You’ve got to live your own.

’You should try it,’ he said. ‘You’ll be surprised at the emotional satisfaction it’d give you.’

‘Emotional satisfaction?’ ’It might help to make sense of things.’ ’Nonsense. Anyhow, I can’t think of a title.’ ‘You’re a stuntman . . . what about STUNTED GROWTH?’ ‘Don’t be daft I don’t even smoke.’ Work dried up for a while. I spent the days wandering around the

streets. One time I rescued this family from a burning house. Lucky for them I was out of work and happened to be passing. I was awarded the George Cross, or something, for civilian bravery . . . for the third time. Never turned up for the ceremony. Maybe that’s why they keep giving it to me, to see what I look like.

Just when I was starting to get bored, another offer arrived. Africa again. Sounded dangerous - good. I took it and the next plane south. It wasn’t the usual African stuff: being mauled by Lions or running down vol- canoes. No, it was a political thriller, they said, about revolutionaries and the like. I doubled up doing the stunts for the top guerrilla. Lots of gunfire, trucks overturning, raids on headquarters. Unfortunately, a real revolution broke out and I was kidnapped and held hostage by this band of jungle fighters. The desperadoes trekked into the interior for a few days and then set up camp, rather like a film unit actually. The leader sort of struck up a friendship with me. One night he confided that he was a bit of a visionary and that he saw visions of some obscure god or other. Him and only him saw this and it gave him his power. Imagine the surprise, when he had his next vision and this strange god appeared, and I could see it as well. The god was surrounded by mist and smoke and it spoke to me, as well; telling me to change my ways and suchlike.

When the leader realised that I was privy to his gft, he let me go and sent me back blindfolded with two guards to the nearest town. Underneath it all, he was right sentimental, because he went on and on about there being a special affinity between us. Which there wasn’t -just because I see the same vision as some bloke doesn’t mean to say we’re bosom buddies. I pick my friends carefully. At the town, I telephoned Gregory and met up with the film crew again. We resumed the picture and then got out quick before the revolution hotted up too much.

My agent, Ralph, got in contact, on my return to England. He was

The stuntman 55

worried. Apparently, some rumour was going round the industry that I was a jinx. Everywhere I went, they claimed, something happened

’What are they carping on about?’ I shouted angnly, ‘I’m the best stunt- man around . . . so I get drunk. So I like the Women. So.’

’The booze, they like. The women, they like. It’s these other things, Sean. The deaths, the bombings, the hijackings, the visions, the angels - all that celestial intervention. They don’t like it.‘

’Overreacting as usual . . . They’ll come running next time they want a bellyflop from a skyscraper. I haven’t got time to argue. I’m off to the pub.’

Gregory and I had a mammoth tour round the regular haunts. He wasn‘t as sparky as normal. Getting serious in his old age. I could swear he was trying to lecture me at one point. About my life. More depth, he slurred. And things like, Life Plans, Awareness and Direction. Not even Gregory can insult me like that. So I warned him off. He persisted. I was going to wallop him, until I remembered my philosophy of life and just left it alone to clear up by itself.

No one can accuse me of not having a deep side. I’ve often had heavy conversations. Some of the stuff people were saying to me, I took to heart. Maybe it was time to settle down to a quieter life. Maybe it wat; the moment to find my true place. My joints were getting stiffer with the years of daredevil antics. I pondered a bit. Then I hit on it. I opened my own pub and called it THE STUNTMAN’S ARMS. Fate, I reckon, was on my side. A distant relative of mine died and left me a million pounds. He’d been a successful arms dealer who the family didn’t talk about in case he had them assassinated.

The pub was a roaring success. Full every night. Gregory became a regular. He’d sit at one end of the bar and we‘d talk, unless I was busy sorting out one of the fights going on. It was a lively place. One night, when I was down in the cellar changing the lager barrels, the angel from the past visited me again. He was really furious and full of regrets. He informed that he’d had enough of me; what a waste of eternal time it was trying to help and guide; that he was giving up and going where he could be of some use. I told him, it was a wise move. I never stay anywhere I’m not wanted, after all. But then, I’m very popular so it doesn‘t crop up as an issue very much. We said our goodbyes in a friendly manner. I offered him a drink for old times’ sake. He refused.

When I got upstairs, Gregory was getting ready to go home and spend all night writing his latest whateveritwas.

’See you tomorrow night, Gregory. Pop in at lunchtime, if you‘re passing. ‘

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He nodded and headed off for the door. As he strolled across the bar, I spotted the angel following him. Gregory saw him too. He just stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the vision. There was fear on his face and wonder and even weariness. He ushered the angel alongside him and the pair of them left together. Poor old Gregory. I could see it was the start of something serious. He’s so earnest. He’ll live to regret it, I thought. Not everyone’s like me. They haven’t found the knack of being content.

You’ve got to work hard to be content in this life. Nobody gives it to you. You only get out what you put in.