Geek Tragedy (18 page)

I mean, how perfect is that? The amount of times I’ve had a fumble in the backs of vehicles. When I was at RADA I had a rather naughty time with a well-known Coronation Street actor in his rather nicely upholstered Rolls-Royce. I must say I was more proud about doing it in a Rolls than doing it with a household name!

A Mini Metro’s hardly as posh as a Rolls, I grant you! But you’ll be surprised at the Rolls-Royce experience—there’s not as much leg-room as you might think. A Mini Metro actually has surprisingly good back seats, quite wide, and a Rolls is very narrow—and as us girls know it’s the width that really matters! So I thought it was worth investigating what the more economy-sized person was able to give me in the way of thrills—it felt right to try him out in an economy-sized car…!

Anyway, with all the bits and bobs they’d put on it, it looked bloody stupid, like a big fairground ride. But, it was clean, it was warm and most important, the windows were covered in fibreglass, so it was out of the way of prying eyes.

So everyone broke for lunch, and I crept inside the props room. I couldn’t put the lights on because someone would have noticed and investigated, so I had to grope my way (which is easy for me—groping is my speciality, just ask anyone!) in the pitch black. I got inside and waited for my little lothario to make his presence felt. I didn’t have long to wait. He’d managed to get in there before me! All of a sudden, I felt a pudgy little hand on my…

*

Stuart stopped reading aloud. He coyly skipped to the end of the page.

…you know that most dwarves are double-jointed? Well take it from me, it’s true! As for whether his bits were—ahem—‘in proportion’ to his size, well it was too dark to draw a picture, but they certainly didn’t feel small!

He might have been small, but what he didn’t have in stature he certainly made up for in stamina! I was starting to wonder if he wasn’t a midget at all, just a normal-sized person who’d worn himself down to a frazzle with sexual athletics!

I was so exhausted that I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was alone. Not that I’m saying that Smurf was a ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ type. I guessed he’d gone back to work, filming the final scenes of season two in his robot monster costume. I’d already finished filming for the day, giving my all as the cruelly betrayed Arkadia that morning (darling, I was marvellous!)

So I just lay there on the back seat, allowing my undercarriage to cool off, watching the world go by through the grille in the front, hoping to catch another glimpse of Smurfy.

I must have slept for hours, because they’d finished filming for the day. And who would come back into the props room but Mervyn Stone? The lovely and talented script editor of VFTV. He was lugging stuff around because most of the lazy lot who worked at the BBC hadn’t turned up for work that day (typical unionised types—don’t want anyone else to do their jobs, but don’t want to do it themselves), and the sight of a sweating and cursing Mervyn zipping in and out, grappling with boxes and bags, his lovely little bottom disappearing and reappearing like Tinkerbell’s light—I can tell you, the old undercarriage was getting ready to be lowered again!

I must tell you at this point that Mervyn and I have a bit of a history. You know the old showbiz joke, the one about the actress who was so stupid she slept with the writer? Well guess which stupid actress did exactly that! And let me tell you, I didn’t feel stupid at all! It’s true, though; bedding a writer is hardly a great career move, but at that time of my career I was so successful I could actually pick my bedfellows based on their parts, not on their ability to GET me parts! Those desperate days (see chapters 3–10) were long, long past, let me tell you!

I was aching to grab him and drag him into my makeshift boudoir, but he was never on his own. Nicholas was sitting there, dismantling a Styrax and packing away props in huge cases the whole time, while Mervyn zipped in and out carrying ray guns and bits of the set—and then soon enough they were both finished, and left. I was alone and…

*

‘Are you going to sit there and read all of it out loud?’

‘Don’t you want to read it?’

‘Read it, yes. Listen to you read it, no.’

‘I’ve read my copy three times already. It gives you a real insight into the chaos that the production team was going through. It’s just mad. When we did our fan videos it was nothing like this. The producer and the script editor didn’t have to lug boxes around.’

‘Well, we shouldn’t have either. If anyone saw me touching a prop they would have gone on strike. Thank God Vanity didn’t mention it at the time.’

‘All in all,’ Stuart said smugly, ‘our production was much more professional and efficient, and was all the better for it.’

Mervyn gave a long-suffering grunt. He’d already tuned him out.

Stuart had turned up ten minutes ago, breezing into Mervyn’s room after being semi-invited in (meaning that Mervyn had opened the door to his knock and didn’t immediately slam it in his face). Mervyn felt quite uncomfortable in Stuart’s presence—not least because Mervyn had leapt into the shower to wash the smell of smoke out of his hair and skin and was wandering around self-consciously in a dressing gown, gathering up his clothes so he could get dressed in the bathroom.

There was another reason for his discomfort: Stuart had turned up in his
Vixens
costume. Mervyn could only guess what the room service might think if she wandered in to find a half-naked middle-aged man entertaining a young transvestite.

Stuart had started talking about Simon, listing possible suspects, but soon got on to his favourite topic of ‘restoring’ episodes until they were ‘better than the original’. He even brought his laptop to show Mervyn some more computer-generated effects dropped unsubtly into the middle of old
Vixens
episodes.

Mervyn was surprisingly relieved. He didn’t want to talk with Stuart about Simon’s murder. Despite the young man’s enthusiasm, and the fact he was a sort of police officer, Mervyn didn’t feel right discussing it with him. He hadn’t shared with Stuart anything about what happened in Simon Josh’s hotel room; Bernard and Nicholas’s break-in, the crude suicide note he’d found, or the fire in the litter bin. Thankfully, Stuart was now occupying himself reading Vanity’s book.

‘I can’t believe she did all those naughty things in the Styrax with a dwarf.’

‘That’s Vanity for you.’

‘It’s just not right,’ mumbled Stuart. ‘Think of the damage she might have caused.’

‘Oh, dwarves are sturdy little chaps…’

Stuart missed the joke completely. ‘I
meant
to the Styrax. It’s very irresponsible! I mean to say, you were there on the final recording day, filming the final scenes of the final explosive episode of series two when the Styrax took over the planet Vixos! She could have broken a bit off and ruined the season climax.’

‘Not the most well-chosen of phrases, Stuart.’

‘Nothing like that happened on the set of my fan videos. When we did ours no one had sex inside the props.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘This book is dynamite.’ Stuart flicked to the inside front cover. His face fell.

‘Oh. It’s not signed. Why didn’t you get it signed when you bought it?’

‘I didn’t buy it!’

‘Oh, she gave you a complimentary copy.’

‘No. That’s the strange thing. It was just left outside my door in that jiffy bag. Vanity said it wasn’t from her.’

‘Was there a note?’

Mervyn allowed a look of dumb surprise to wander on to his face. ‘Do you know, I didn’t look. I was more worried about what she’d written about me.’

Stuart picked up the envelope and slipped a hand inside. ‘There’s something in here, it’s a compliment slip I think, or… Oh.’

‘What?’

Stuart pulled out an A4 sheet of paper. He unfolded it slowly and placed it on the desk. It was a photocopy of a newspaper which covered most of the page; a jagged and faded clipping from
The Daily Mail
. Bits of it were so denuded that the photocopying process had left blank fuzzy spaces on the page. Peering at it closely, Mervyn could just make out the date. It was from 1986. He could clearly read an excitable profile of the Duke and Duchess of York’s wedding, alongside a picture of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson displaying large shiny eyes and huge toothy smiles, like a pair of straw hat-wearing donkeys on a picture postcard.

But that wasn’t all. Written across the newspaper, in fat marker-pen scrawl, was:

376—229—22

HANDS OFF—GINGER!

SAFE

Mervyn eyed it suspiciously, like he would a first-draft script from Andrew Jamieson.

The silence got too much for Stuart. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

‘Nothing. Not a thing.’ Mervyn examined it close up, turned it upside down, and finally held it up to the light. ‘“HANDS OFF—GINGER!” Who’s “Ginger”?’ Sarah Ferguson—she’s got red hair…’

Stuart leapt up behind Mervyn and pointed over his shoulder, causing Mervyn to flinch involuntarily.

‘Well… Have you got any connections with the royal family at all?’

‘There was that one-night stand with Princess Margaret, but I don’t like to talk about it.’

‘You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?’

‘No. Not in the slightest.’

‘Wow. Seriously?’

‘No. I
was
being sarcastic. You see, when I said I wasn’t being sarcastic just then? I was being sarcastic.’

‘Okay… Well… Have you at least
met
any of the royal family, then?’

‘No. Oh…yes. Well, sort of. I did fleetingly meet Prince Edward once.At a
Children in Need
bash at the BBC. The year the
Vixens from the Void
cast danced the Time Warp, from
The Rocky Horror Show
…’

Mervyn stared at the paper again, concentrating on the words, rather than the background. ‘Simon Josh had ginger hair. Perhaps “HANDS OFF—GINGER!” was a warning to him?’ Simon’s face swam unbidden into Mervyn’s head. The smug expression, the silly glasses, and most vividly, the huge tangle of bright red hair.

Stuart looked doubtful. ‘What about the numbers?’

‘A safe combination? It says SAFE. But safe numbers are normally one or two digits aren’t they? These seem too big.’ Mervyn shrugged. ‘I still don’t know why it was sent to me, though. And what’s it got to do with Vanity’s autobiography?’ Mervyn turned the sheet over. On the other side was a tidy message in courier font.

Hello Mervyn.

Sometimes the memory cheats… I think Vanity’s book has thrown all sorts of interesting things up, don’t you agree? You know what they say… Can’t keep anything from us fans! I think we should have a little meet-up; discuss terms for your NEXT appearance at one of my conventions. I’m sure you’ll agree, and I’m thinking that perhaps you should accept a more reasonable fee next time. Hope that’s okay.

See me? 8.30pm, room 1024.

Your obedient servant. S. Josh.

‘Oh my God. I don’t believe it!’

Stuart snatched the paper from him and read it. He looked as stunned as Mervyn.

‘Simon Josh is blackmailing you…from beyond the grave!’

‘So do you have any idea how he was going to try to blackmail you?’ whispered Stuart.

Mervyn and Stuart were exploring the venue Simon had suggested for his ‘little meet-up’ with Mervyn. But there was nothing interesting about room 1024. It was just another conference lounge, like the room they’d signed autographs in that morning. Bare walls. Carpet tiles. Spindly chairs. Fiendish blinds on the windows.

Their search was made difficult because it was in pitch darkness. In its other, more fantastical life, the room was ‘The Catacombs of Herath’, and it played host to video screenings of
Vixens
episodes throughout the day. It was usually the darkest, smelliest part of the convention. And this year was no exception.

‘No idea.’

‘Oh, you
must
have some idea!’

‘Shhh!’ A lump of something vaguely fan-shaped glared at them and put a finger to its mouth.

‘I’ve done many things in life I’m ashamed about Stuart,’ Mervyn whispered. ‘As no doubt you and the other fans are aware. I’m sure they’re all listed on a website somewhere.’

Stuart leapt to his feet. ‘Right, let’s go and see.’

‘No, Stuart! The point I’m making is I’ve done lots of embarrassing things, but nothing that’s so shameful I’d be willing to get blackmailed over it.’

‘That time you got arrested for smashing that restaurant window?’

‘Stuart…’

‘Or the time that actress—Shelley Bolan—cited you in her divorce?’

‘Stuart!’

‘Shhh!’ The lumpy fan made another noise, like he or she was slowly deflating.

Mervyn lowered his voice. ‘They’re not secret are they? How could he blackmail me with them if they’re not secret?’

‘Point taken.’

Mervyn got onto his knees and started peering under the chairs. ‘Oh my God!’

‘Shhh!’ More
Vixens
fans raised their fingers like weapons and fastened them to their lips.

‘What? What is it? What?’

‘If the other chairs are like this one I could open a second-hand chewing gum shop.’

Stuart helped with the search, but there wasn’t anywhere to look; no drawers or cabinets or cupboards. They moved around, brushing their fingers along window sills and skirting boards and raising their feet in an exaggerated fashion to make sure they weren’t standing on evidence. They looked more like mime-artists practising a moon walk than amateur sleuths conducting a search. Once or twice they moved in front of the screen, to cries of anguish from the dimly lit figures on the chairs.

Mervyn crawled under a table, only to find Stuart had crawled in from the other end. He was trapped.

‘So what made you suspect foul play?’

‘What?’ Mervyn was getting a little tired of this Scrappy Doo made flesh.

‘Simon’s death. What made you first suspect? It wasn’t the purple face was it?’