The Casting Director is out on Audible, Amazon and i-Tunes.
Click here to listen and here to read.
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Lee Hamill is the protagonist of Nick’s Dublin-set crime fiction book ‘The Casting Director.’ Here’s a short fiction sequence featuring Lee that doesn’t appear in the novel.
The Sunshine Shelter
My name is Lee Hamill. I’m the guy who finds unknowns on the streets of Dublin for low-budget Irish films. Someone has to do it and for now, that someone is me.
The narcissism of performers and sociopathy of directors is not much exaggerated, but despite their frequent vanities, I like actors. They’re better company than most. I however got typecast early on as the casting director who finds kids and teenagers, so it’s not often I work with honest-to-goodness trained professionals. This does not deter actors from bombarding me with e-mails, phone calls and sometimes impromptu appearances on my doorstep. Most of the week, I’m out on searches, so they’re wasting their time.
There’s a lad, Gareth, who saw one of the posters I’d put up in his homeless shelter in Rialto. I can fit it in as my last stop today. When I arrive, it’s pouring down. I sit in the car for a few minutes to see if it will ease and listen to a radio ad for health insurance that uses the word ‘believe’ three times before I switch it off. An e-mail pings into the phone with the subject title ‘Emerging Actor’. I wonder what he’s emerging from – a chrysalis? His moody wet-look hair in the headshot says ‘I just got out of the shower.’ Maybe that’s what he’s emerging from. I could be waiting here all evening, so I drape the transparent rain-mac over my shoulders and make a dash for it across the road and into the curved brick portico of St. Fintan’s.
‘Hi, I’m here to see Gareth Cyprian please.’
‘I don’t think he’s in.’
The severe young woman behind the desk doesn’t inject any warmth into the exchange whatsoever. Her eyes drift back to the screen – I’m interrupting her from a pressing social media session.
It says Celine on her nametag encompassed with the sunshine logo of the shelter. There’s an older lady further back watching telly – I wish I was dealing with her instead.
‘Oh that’s odd, he rang me and said he’d be around all day – can you check, please?’
She looks up at me, the monitor’s glare gleaming off the pallor of her skin. ‘I know who’s in their rooms and who’s not.’
Our encounter has come to an end. Making good first impressions has never been my forte, but I think it would take dangerous levels of evil charisma to bring forth the very best from Sunny Celine. But Facebook must be even duller than usual because then she asks me – without of course looking up – ‘What’s this in connection with anyway?’
‘Just a quick interview to see if he’d be interested in doing some acting.’
‘Oh I don’t think Gareth would have any aptitude for that.’
Stand-up comedy, pop karaoke and acting are three things that everyone seems to be an expert reality-show judge of these days.
‘Well there’s only one way to find out.’
She leans forward in her office chair. ‘I think there’d be behavioural issues that would disqualify him.’
When someone speaks ill of another, you’ve got to ask yourself why.
‘Disqualify? That’s quite a bold statement.’
‘Just…accurate.’ Celine’s big into enunciating her consonants.
‘OK well I’ll try him again another day – he knows my number.’
It’s torrential now and despite my Blade Runner mac, I get drenched waiting for a bus to scoop up its wet fares and pass before I can hop into the car. I sit making a note to call back here, as I wait for the condensation to clear. The phone rings. It surely can’t be my worried employers calling so soon.
‘Yes?’
‘Is this Lee?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Celine at the St. Fintan’s Centre – you were just in with us? Gareth is here after all and asked that we ring you.’
She sounds like a hostage reading an ISIS statement with a gun to her head – he must have insisted she call. It’s a good job I’m not halfway home by now, so I race back through the rain and inside again. Celine glowers at me over the desk.
Gareth’s waiting in the foyer with a friend, squeaking his runners on the lino. He’s got some serious bedhead going on, like a sailor who’s just rolled out of his hammock. Considering the wintry monsoon outside, both boys are rather optimistic in their choice of apparel: long shorts and thin white t-shirts. The only part of Gareth that’s adequately clothed is his left forearm that’s in a padded cast.
‘Are you two not foundered?’
‘Nah – we’re inside playin’ computer games, playin’ the X-Box.’
‘Alright, as I explained to you on the phone, at this stage, I just want to get a quick chat with you on camera.’
‘Is it OK for you to interview Dano too?’ Gareth asks, indicating his friend.
‘Of course, but you rang me, so I’ll talk to you first.’
I wouldn’t normally film in an institution without permission, but since Celine is being so obstructive, I figure she’ll be happier if she gets to overhear everything. Also, these boys will freeze if we go outside. I frame up and hit record.
‘Do I look at you or the camera?’
‘Just make eye contact with me. Now, what’s your full name and age please?’
‘Gareth Cyprian and I’m eighteen.’
‘That’s a great name – where does your surname come from?’
‘My Da was from Romania-’
I hear a scrape of a chair and the bolt on the hatch slide back. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t film in the Centre.’
I’d hoped to get away with banging off two quick clips indoors and heading away.
‘Oh. I’d take the lads outside, but you see what it’s like out there.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Celine says again, looking anything but, ‘but we have strict media guidelines – if you want, you can ring this number and talk to Tony, our supervisor.’
She hands me Tony’s card. I would hate to be a resident here under the patronising rule of Celine. There would be no charming her. Not even if you were an indigent Clooney or a dipsomaniac Cary Grant.
‘OK,’ I say, ‘Is he liable to pick up on a Sunday?’
She shrugs and folds her arms. ‘I just know you can’t film here,’ she says, ready to escort me off the premises.
I apologise to my auditionees and dial the number – it rings out with no option of leaving a message.
‘Eh Lee, why don’t we do it outside?’ Gareth pipes up. These boys are now dead scared Celine’s going to ruin their big chance.
‘Have you got any coats?’ I ask.
‘Upstairs, yeah, but we’ll be grand – we can stand under tha’.
He points at the awning in the courtyard, which is where we re-locate to and resume the interview, trying to avoid any cold drips from splatting down the back of our necks or onto the camera lens.
‘So we’ll try this again. What made you ring me?’ I ask.
‘Dunno – I’ve always been interested in actin’, you know, I love the whole TV, film thing, the lot, but I never pursued it – didn’t know how to go about it.’
I hear the swish of the front door opening.
‘And how long have you been at St. Fintan’s?’
‘About eight months. I was-’
Gareth is mid-answer when a strident voice cuts across him, ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t ask him anything about the shelter.’
I pause the camera and turn around to face Celine. This woman is like the Terminator.
‘We’re outside now Celine – you can’t dictate what questions I ask – inside, you would’ve had input if you wanted. I’m asking Gareth the same basic questions I ask everyone – ‘where do you live’ is pretty standard.’
She’s flustered at anyone challenging her and checks back that her older colleague is keeping an eye on proceedings, who seems torn between the drama outside and whatever’s on the TV.
‘No, I cannot allow this – what is it for, exactly?’
Celine’s panicking now – she doesn’t give a damn about nurturing the boys in her charge, just about covering her ass.
‘I’ve told you already – I’m scouting for actors for a feature.’
‘But you said you were going to interview him, not make a film.’
If she’s so worried about me asking questions about St. Fintan’s, I wonder just how they’re running the place.
‘It’s not just up to me as to who we pick, so I shoot all interviews to show the director – he and his producer are the only people who will see this.’
‘No – I cannot allow this to take place – you’re still on our premises.’
Celine keeps her hand on the door handle so that she can nip back inside if I get shirty.
‘Excuse me, my poster is up on your noticeboard – explaining precisely who we are and what’s involved. You asked us to leave – that’s why we’re risking the health of your clients by doing it outside. Gareth is over eighteen, so if he wants to be interviewed for something that he might well have a flair for, then it’s up to him, isn’t it?’
‘Do not raise your voice at me.’
There is nothing more aggravating than being told to lower your voice when you haven’t raised it. At least not yet.
‘I am not raising my voice.’
Celine beckons me over to her with an index finger – short of prodding me in the chest, if someone wants to piss me off, that’ll do it.
‘Can I talk to you for a minute please?’
‘It’s not you I want to talk to – it’s them.’ I point over at the boys who now look more wary of me than they are of her.
‘Please calm down, sir.’ She is a passive-aggression sorceress.
Now, I’m raising my voice: ‘You’ve already asked me to leave twice. Are you saying we have to stand in the rain, risking pneumonia for these young men in your care?’
Celine is backing away, as if I might strike her which enrages me all the more.
‘You could always take them to a coffee shop…’ she trails off, halfway in the door, ready to scamper back behind her desk.
I glance down at my watch. ‘I sincerely doubt there’s one open in Rialto at half six on a Sunday evening.’
‘That’s not my problem.’
‘I doubt anything’s your problem Celine.’
I walk away lest I say anything else, with Gareth and Dano in tow.
‘Right gents, if you’re happy to take a quick damp stroll, let’s find somewhere we won’t be interrupted.’
We run down the street getting soaked to the skin and duck into a doorway, which is the best shelter we’re going to get, even though the wind is whipping ice-rain into our faces in a 1-2-3 storm-waltz.
‘I hope I haven’t opened you up to attack from that witch,’ I say.
‘Nah – don’t worry about it,’ Gareth says, ‘it’s Tony who runs the show down here – she’s just a fuckin’ busybody.’
I hope he’s right and I hope they’re worth interviewing after all that, as I’d hate to drop them in it for no good reason. They’re both shivering and the gusts are ruffling the on-board mic so much that’s it’ll be hard to hear the audio, so I make it quick. Dano is a cheerful dead loss, but the man who spotted the poster and had the gumption to call is worth talking to.
‘What happened your arm?’
He sucks his teeth like a Jamaican – it must be coming back into gesture-fashion. ‘I injured myself – fractured it.’
‘How did you break it?’
‘I punched a wardrobe. Just somebody had annoyed me and it happened.’
‘What little things annoy you? What drives you up the wall?’
‘The itchiness of this thing, for one. I have to go at it with a metal ruler for a proper scratch.’ His fingers try to get in under the fraying edge to provide some interim relief, but the numbing cold is a more pressing concern.
‘What else?’
‘People bein’ thick.’
‘When was the last time someone was thick with you?’ I am of course referencing Celine.
Gareth takes a different tack: ‘I was in a fight with this chap. He was just lookin’ at me funny, like. He was lookin’ at us like he owned us and I didn’t like that. I shoved him. There was a bit of a ruckus then.’
‘So how’d it go?’
‘Badly – for me, that was.’ He giggles. ‘Caught me where it hurts, you know, in the jewels?’
He and Dano crack up at the memory of this. ‘Ah very funny for you lot,’ he says, addressing his audience in mock indignation, ‘–you weren’t the one pukin’ yer ring up!’
I like it that he not only admits to losing a fight but finds it funny.
‘What’s your favourite and your least favourite thing about Dublin?’
Gareth rubs the goose-pimples on his good arm and says, ‘Dublin’s a decent place, when you know where to keep yourself, when you know where to stay in line, like, there’s a lot of, I dunno, everyone wants to be bigger, everyone wants to be better, no one wants to be equal. In this part of Dublin, I don’t like any…I wouldn’t be walking around anywhere here.’
‘Are you talking about trying to keep your head down?’
‘Well yeah, I try and avoid a lot of people from these areas. Growin’ up here, this would be the main place you’d be, Rialto, the Barn and then, Town.’
‘Has your stomping ground changed then?’
‘It’s not just that, it’s just being with different people from different places, all over the place, you just realise that there’s different people out there than the people you know in the circle. Around here, everyone’s kinda the same. You grow up thinking that’s just it. Everyone’s just like this, but then as you meet other people, and talk to them, characters, personalities, like you, the whole shebang, the whole crew of people you probably work with, you realise there’s much more.’
He’s fishing, but doing so with dignity and he’s got a great look – intelligent blue eyes vacillating between sensitivity and aggression. It could go either way with Gareth, because it probably always has – like any swing of momentum, dependent on the day.
‘So you’re curious about meeting people from places other than just here?’
‘Exactly – like where are you from – America?’
‘Mullingar actually.’ His face falls because he thinks he’s insulted me. ‘But I’ve worked all over,’ I say, to tell him he hasn’t blown it. ‘And you’d be up for trying something new?’
‘Yeah, I dunno,’ he says, ‘I see life as signs, that things are meant to happen. Everything happens for a reason, kinda thing. Why would this thing happen? Like you putting up that poster and comin’ here. What are the odds, you know?’
Gareth’s not trying to guilt-trip me here – he’s absolutely sincere.
‘Well you look for the things you’re interested in,’ I say. ‘Now I don’t believe in destiny, but I believe in talent and hard work, so if you’re willing to put in the work, I think you’ve as good a shot as anyone to be an actor.’
I click off the camera and we make our way back. We’re not at script-stage yet and I’m not going to ask a freezing non-actor to try it for the first time on South Circular Road in a February rainstorm. I shake their hands.
‘Oh and Gareth,’ I say, ‘watch out for Celine – she’s not your ally.’
‘Who are you tellin’?’ The two friends laugh at my statement of the blindingly obvious and bounce up the steps thrilled at how their day has turned out. I watch them pass the front desk. They keep their eyes down and hide their elation. Non-engagement looks to be the strategy of choice.
Celine stares out at me standing in the rain. It isn’t because she fancies me. It’s not because she’s been won over by my animal magnetism. She holds the look wanting me to know that she has all the power over those boys’ lives.
I wave at her. I want her to know that there’s another adult watching. I resolve to interview all residents of her tiny police state on a rolling basis, whatever the film.
Maybe if you end up homeless at eighteen, you’d better believe there’s a grand plan for each of us and if anyone needs a bit of hope in his life, it’s a bright lad in a nasty situation like this. He’s no lead, but I’ll make bloody sure he plays one of the sidekicks.
The Casting Director is out now on Amazon, Audible and i-Tunes.
(The Sunshine Shelter sequence does not appear in The Casting Director.)