Geek Tragedy (6 page)

Soon the allotted time was up and Vanity’s entourage descended on her once more. Her ciggies and pens were duly collected by the thin-faced girl.

The girl stared at Mervyn, unblinking. It unnerved him.

Vanity stood up and tousled Mervyn’s already unkempt hair. ‘Come into my room and we’ll talk about projects you can write for me to star in. Perhaps if I’m in the mood, I’ll even tell you what I’ve written about you in my autobiography.’ As she made to leave, she flicked him a predatory look and lowered her voice to a growl. ‘Perhaps we could even re-enact a few chapters…’

‘Now Vanity,’ he whispered. ‘You’re taking advantage of a randy old man. You’re not being fair.’

‘Fair? Fair?’ she hooted at full volume. ‘My dear Mervy. “Fair” is my middle name.’ She grinned wolfishly. ‘Literally…’ She squeezed his wrist, and then was gone in a cloud of Chanel.

*

Mervyn was surprised by how flirty he’d been to Vanity. True, they’d used each other shamelessly for sex in the past, but that time was long gone. They’d both stayed out of each other’s underwear for some years now, each preferring to use their convention days to prey on the young, firm and easily impressed.

Still, the offer was there… And even if he was well acquainted with what lay beneath her bedcovers, getting acquainted with what was beneath the covers of her autobiography sounded just as enticing.

He was just about to follow her when a large sweaty fan hove into view, blocking his escape. He had thick glasses and rigid black hair sculpted into a drastic parting. He wore a black T-shirt with an impossible looking woman on it—breasts the size of dustbin lids straining against a skimpy leather outfit that would have made it difficult for the poor girl to draw breath let alone fight crime in a dangerous galaxy. It proved, once again, Mervyn’s pet theory on science fiction and fantasy attire. The more attractive and athletic the character depicted on the T-shirt, the less attractive and athletic the fan wearing it.

Mervyn was irritated; the autograph session was now over. This gormless bastard had just taken advantage of the fact he’d not yet risen from his seat. He looked around helplessly but no help was forthcoming.

‘She’s great isn’t she? A wonderful lady.’ Mervyn realised the fan was clutching a signed photograph of Vanity; the one with her nipples prodding through the T-shirt. ‘She’s really real. Genuine. She’s always like that with me. We share something really special, Vanity and me,’ the fan continued.

He was tempted to say ‘Oh really? What do you share exactly—bra size?’ But he managed to stop himself. Good Mervyn. Nice Mervyn. ‘Oh really?’ he eventually said.

‘Oh yes. A real psychic bond.’ He put his photos in a leather file, which he had in a satchel. Then he pulled out a large piece of cardboard from the satchel, which he unfolded and plonked unceremoniously under Mervyn’s nose. The whole process took an inordinately long time, and Mervyn’s patience withered like the plants he tried to keep alive in his house. ‘You have to sign there,’ said the fan, pointing.

Mervyn inspected it. The piece of cardboard was smothered with photos, video covers and magazine articles. The fan indicated the bottom left corner.

‘Here?’

‘Yes’

‘Right, and to whom should I put it—?’

‘Just put your name.’

‘Just the name. Right.’ Another one for eBay, then.

He dutifully signed his name over a photo of a smiling man in a sparkly uniform.

The fan peered at the autograph. ‘What does that say?’ he demanded.

‘Um… “With best wishes, Mervyn Stone.”’

The fan peered again. ‘You’re not Major Karn played by Roderick Burgess,’ he said, the flat voice not wavering by a semitone.

‘No, no I’m not,’ said Mervyn. ‘I have to admit it, I’m not. You’ve caught me fair and square. Devilishly sneaky trick of yours to blow my cover, getting me to sign my name like that.’

Enough with the sarcasm, Mervyn
, he told himself.
These people have paid a lot of money to be here, and they’re paying your fee. Have some
patience
, for God’s sake
.

The man blinked several times, as though he was trying to reboot his brain. ‘That’s Major Karn played by Roderick Burgess. I wanted Roderick Burgess’s autograph on Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

‘I’m sorry. I think it’s a magic marker. I don’t think it’ll rub off.’

He blinked again. ‘You’ve signed your name on Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

‘Excuse me?’ Someone had approached them. It was one of the stewards who patrolled these conventions. With bright mauve sweatshirt and identity pass round her neck, she looked like a prim-yet-sexy gym mistress. ‘The autographs have now finished. We have to clear the hall.’

‘He signed his name on Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

‘I see,’ she said. She took the cardboard collage, inspecting the offending scribble with great solicitude. Then, like a nurse removing a chest bandage, she suddenly ripped out Roddy’s photo and gave his collection back to him. ‘There. You can put another photo in your little collection and get Mr Burgess to sign that one instead, can’t you?’

The man walked away in a daze where he was joined by other fans. Mervyn could just hear a faint disbelieving monotone saying ‘She tore out Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

This steward was young, pretty and had just rescued him from a large annoying fan. He was definitely in love. What was the name on her tag? She wasn’t standing near enough, and, like Simon’s tag, it was printed in that unreadable squared-off futuristic font. Bugger.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said, staring at her tag like a cross-eyed buzzard. He made out the name ‘Minnie Moncreif’ or ‘Montrose’. Or something like that.

‘That’s all right. It’s my job to keep the scary ones at a safe distance.’

‘Is it? Thank God. You couldn’t escort me full-time, could you?’

‘Do you want me to?’

She tilted her smooth innocent face at him, and then she grinned, the dirtiest grin he’d ever seen on any woman’s face. Even Vanity’s.

And then she was gone.

What the…?

He hurried out of the autograph room, head cocked like a spaniel, eyes darting from right to left, looking for her. Was she at the end of the corridor by the lifts? He broke into a determined lollop, eyes craning to see a splash of curly auburn hair. Unfortunately, someone else happened to be heading swiftly down an intersecting corridor, and as Mervyn wasn’t looking where he was going, the collision was inevitable.

‘My portfolio!’ wailed Simon, as photos, papers and postcards scattered down the corridor, falling like large multi-coloured snowflakes.

‘Oh dear. I’m really sorry…’ He went to pick up a few, but Simon screamed as he pulled on white cotton gloves. ‘Don’t touch the deceased ones! A lot of these artistes have been unavailable for decades! They are priceless!’ Simon’s face folded into an unpleasant scowl, which suited him. It was as if, with no others around, he no longer had to waste energy on his artificial bonhomie.

Obligingly, Mervyn picked up an autograph slip which had become separated from the photo, but Simon snatched it off him. ‘I
told
you…’

‘I know this actor! This is Samuel Johns. He’s not dead!’ Mervyn protested.

Simon glared at him, smoothing it. ‘He
happens
to be very,
very
ill,’ he snarled. ‘Who knows, when you snuff it, your signature might be worth something…’ He huffed off, holding his piles of photos like a newborn baby. ‘But I doubt it, Mervyn. I doubt it,’ he called back.

Mervyn resumed his trot along the corridor, but with little enthusiasm. She was long gone.
Oh well
, he thought.
Might as well head back to my room.

He pressed the button to open the lift, only to find her waiting inside for him. One hand on the ‘hold’ button, the other placed provocatively on her hip.

‘Are you stalking me?’ she asked.

‘Ah…well. No…’

She smiled wickedly. ‘Would you like to?’

*

Mervyn’s hands were trembling so much he could barely insert his key-card into the door slot. Fortunately, that passed. He had no more problems with slots after that.

The steward scooped up her ferocious bosom in a sturdy bra and shrugged on her sweatshirt.

‘You off?’ said Mervyn, watching her from his bed. He was self-consciously hiding the more wobbly and careworn bits of his body under the duvet. So basically, it was tucked tight up under his chin.

He’d been much less self-conscious half an hour earlier. He’d been hopping round the hotel room, doing the dance known as the ‘Man Desperate for a Shag Shuffle’. This involved trying to take shoes and socks off with jeans puddled around the ankles while hurling a shirt above the head, trying to shake it free from the wrists.

‘Got to go. Soz. Got to get ready for your panel. The whole convention will turn out for it. If I’m not there with the other stewards to sort the queues out, Simon’s gonna get killed in the stampede.’

‘Now that’s something I’d pay forty quid to see.’

She bounded off the bed. Her arms were surprisingly large, threaded with muscles. Her shoulders were bigger than Mervyn’s. Mervyn was under no illusion that she led a very active lifestyle; the sides of his stomach ached from the workout.

She bent over the hotel mirror brushing her hair, her buttocks raised and pointed in his direction. ‘You’d have to buy a ticket and wait in line.’

‘Oh yes?’ Mervyn tried to spin the conversation out. Anything to keep that impressive bottom hovering in his vicinity. It was like two pink helium balloons bobbing across his eyeline, so smooth and shiny he swore he could see the hotel windows reflected in them.

‘Is he not popular then… Minnie?’ He used the name tentatively. In the excitement of the last half-hour, he’d forgotten to check her tag properly.

But he’d obviously read it right, because she turned and grinned at him. ‘Yeah, you might say that. All us stewards, we all muck in for a laugh, really. Have a boogie at the disco, meet the stars. He takes it far too seriously, like a business. He’s always oiling after the big names, but he treats them like kids, really.’ She paused, thinking. ‘No. Not like kids. More like things. He talks about you lot like he does all those ray guns and robots and props he owns. “Get Jamieson out of the bar and put him where he’s supposed to be!” he says, and “I want my prize collection on stage in five minutes,” when he’s talking about the Vixen
actresses
, would you believe.’ Her face darkened. ‘And then there’s what else he’s done. He’s not done a nice… Well, let’s just say he’s not popular. Patronising tosser. We call him Slime-on Josh. We got loads of nicknames for the stars. They aren’t all flattering so I’d better not tell.’

‘I shudder to think. Are you lot thinking up a nickname for me?’

‘What’s to say you haven’t got a nickname already?’

‘No I haven’t!’ He threw a pillow at her.

‘You have too!’ It was chucked back with a giggle. Minnie leapt on the bed, lying on top of him, nose-to-nose, with only the duvet separating them. Mervyn felt like a teenager, larking around with his new girlfriend in her parents’ bed, his head buzzing with excitement and danger.

‘You’re teasing me.’

‘It’s true. You’ve got a nickname.’

‘How can I have? I haven’t done a convention in seven years.’

She smiled her dirty smile. ‘What can I say? You’ve got a reputation that don’t die easily. Let’s just say you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself among the girl stewards. They say you always used to go on patrol, case them all for fresh talent. They call you “the Stone Ranger”.’

‘The
what?
’

She kissed his nose. ‘You heard!’

‘What do you mean “case for talent”? I do not “case for talent”.’

‘Oh really? And you weren’t staring at my boobs all the while I was dealing with that fat bloke and his autographs?’

‘But I was only—’ He was about to protest that he’d only been trying to read her name tag, but his survival instinct took over. Probably not the best time to bring that up. Besides, if he hadn’t been trying to focus on her name, he’d most likely have been staring at her breasts. It was his good fortune he’d accidentally given her the right impression.

‘Anyway. I’m profoundly grateful to you.’

‘You should be, mate.’

‘No, not about what we just did! Though of course, that was nice.’

‘Nice?’

‘Great!’

‘I’ll take great.’

‘I meant I was profoundly grateful about you rescuing me from that mad fan.’

‘No worries. All part of the job.’

‘They can get a bit much, the ones with their anal addiction to crossing the stars off their little lists.’

‘I can believe it.’

She leapt off the bed and dived for her jeans, slipping them on. Then she dashed to the door, turned and said, ‘Oh, before I go, could you do something for me?’

‘Again? I’m an old man.’

‘Not that! Though I’ll be back for more, don’t you worry,’ she chucked a small black leather book on the bed. ‘Could you sign the postcard on page 23 and get the book back to me after the panel? I’d be really grateful.’

And she was gone.

Mervyn picked up the book. It was an autograph book, sheets of plastic envelopes filled with photos and postcards; most were signed, in very fulsome ways, ‘To Minnie.’

All the postcards and photos were of
Vixens
celebrities. All men.

Mervyn’s was about the only one left unsigned.

I’ll be back for more. Don’t you worry.

CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT ONE /
1.00pm

EVENT:
BEHIND-THE-SCENES PANEL, NICHOLAS EVERETT, MERVYN STONE, BERNARD VINER

LOCATION:
Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)

EVENT:
‘ASSASSINS OF DESTINY’ PART TWO, EPISODE SCREENING

LOCATION:
The Catacombs of Herath (video lounge—room 1024)

EVENT:
AUTOGRAPH PANEL, JOSEPH McANDREW, TIM WARNE, BRYCE CAMPION, RICK ARMORY

LOCATION:
Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)