Geek Tragedy (8 page)

Simon took one look at the sad, crushed fragments in the steward’s hands, and fainted again, his head hitting the stage with a satisfying ‘thunk’.

CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT ONE / 2.00pm

EVENT: MY LIFE AS A GROOLIAN—JOSEPH McANDREW, TIM WARNE, BRYCE CAMPION, RICK AMORY

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

EVENT: ‘THE DOOMSDAY SEQUENCE’ EPISODE SCREENING

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

EVENT: PHOTOS—WILLIAM SMURFETT

LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)

EVENT: AUTOGRAPH PANEL—RODERICK BURGESS, Katherine Warner

LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)

EVENT: VIXENS FROM THE VOID: WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS FAN PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew

LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)

Mervyn headed into the lift, nursing his swollen jaw and picking chunks of Styrax out of his hair. Nicholas rode up with him. The doors pinged open.

Of all the bloody luck. Bernard was in the room next to his.

‘You talentless hack!’ he screeched. ‘I’m going to see you in court and sue your arse off!’

‘Oh really,’ said Mervyn drily. ‘I’m not an expert, but as I understand English law, slander only works when you say stuff which
isn’t
true.’

Bernard looked like he was going to say something else, but decided against it. He gave another furious look and slammed his door.

Nicholas turned to Mervyn. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘Well I’m not. I’m shaking like a leaf. I don’t know about you, my sweet, but I’m gasping for a ciggie. I could eat a packet and spit out the filters.’

‘I don’t smoke any more’.

‘You could watch me. You’ll get a moral buzz, if nothing else.’

‘I’ll meet you outside in 15 minutes.’

*

Mervyn examined the damage in his mirror. There was an angry red mark tattooed across his chin. Fortunately his hair hadn’t been affected—it always looked as if he’d collided with something large and dusty.

There were white marks streaked across his jacket. He attacked them ineffectually with his hairbrush. Fortunately, he had an identical jacket waiting in the wardrobe. If your choice of outfit was any colour so long as it’s black, it was as well to have a spare to hand.

*

Order had been restored to the room with spectacular efficiency. Morris had taken advantage of Simon Josh’s comatose state to improve things. Four actors who had played Groolian ambassadors had been rushed on early and were desperately trying to find something new and interesting to say about a job they’d done for six weeks, 20 years ago (there were only so many times you could point out how itchy the bald caps were and how the purple body paint never washed off, no matter how many baths you had).

As Mervyn walked towards the foyer, he found himself in a narrow corridor, having to inch his way past a long queue waiting for something or other. They all stared fish-eyed at him. Dust and fragments of Styrax flaked off Mervyn’s hair. The attendees grabbed at the bits as they floated down as if Mervyn was covered in gold.

Some of then started to nudge Mervyn, unbalance him, trying to make more bits fall off. He started to feel like he was Jesus, surrounded by a crowd of particularly assertive and demanding lepers.

There was an open door at the head of the queue. He dived inside. Morris was in there, taking photos of
Vixens
fans as they posed alongside another Styrax prop—similar to the one Mervyn had scattered to the four corners of the hotel with his descending backside.

‘Don’t lean on the Styrax, please,’ said Morris casually, staring through his camera at a fan who had unwisely rested his elbow on the prop. ‘It’s only papier-mâché and fibreglass on a wooden base. They’re old and rather fragile. They get damaged easily.’ He caught sight of Mervyn. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He indicated the Styrax. ‘Watch yourself around that. There’s not many left now.’

‘Thanks. I’ll try to resist smashing it to pieces.’

The photo was taken, money changed hands and the fan left the room. Morris took the opportunity to shut the door on the queue, prompting muffled and indignant cries.

‘Are you okay?’ Morris asked, in a sepulchral tone.

‘I’m fine. Just a little shaken.’

‘It was quite a punch he threw.’

‘Yes. Yes it was.’

‘I hope you don’t blame us for this.’

‘No no… It’s just a personal matter between me and Bernard.’

‘That’s great’. Morris patted the case of his video camera. ‘Because it’s going to look great on the website and the souvenir DVD.’ Morris looked him up and down, as if sizing him up for a coffin. ‘Are you’re sure you’re all right? You know, you really should get your head looked at…’

I’ve been thinking that ever since I got here
, Mervyn thought.

‘A knock on the head, well, it can be more serious, you know.’ Morris waggled a fleshy finger against his head to reinforce his point. ‘I’m going to the bar. Do you want anything?’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

Mervyn was left alone with the Styrax Sentinel. He sauntered up to it. ‘I don’t know what they’ve been telling you. But I didn’t really mean to crush your colleague. So don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said jokily.

‘I’d like to see you try, chummo,’ said the Styrax.

Mervyn staggered, took several backward steps, and fell over on his bruised behind.

‘Can we take a break? I’m dyin’ in here, man,’ it said.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Hey, who’s
that
?’

‘Smurf?’

‘Merv?’

Mervyn edged towards the Styrax. ‘Smurf? Is that you?’

‘Get me out of this bastard thing, will you?’

Mervyn unbolted the back of the Styrax and two sets of stubby fingers grabbed the rim of the shell. A sweaty dwarf eased himself out, grabbed a towel from a chair, rubbed his face vigorously, and left it flapping on his head like a boxer.

‘I’d give it ten minutes if I were you,’ the dwarf said, jerking a finger at the open lid of the Styrax. A ripe smell, Essence of Dwarf Sweat, was starting to fill the room. ‘Those things don’t half stink. Going in there…it’s like getting stuffed inside your own armpit.’ He looked around, scowling. ‘Don’t tell me the bastard’s gone for another tea break and left me. I’ll bite his bloody kneecaps off.’

‘He went to the bar.’

‘Huh. Didn’t ask if I wanted anything. As usual. When you’re in there you might as well be on another planet for all the notice gets taken of you.’

‘Smurf…what were you doing in there?’

‘I’m getting my photo taken.’

‘In there?’

‘The fans like it like that. We sell loads.’

Mervyn looked at the pile of photos on the table, all featuring grinning fans standing by the Styrax. ‘Wouldn’t they prefer it, if you know, they could see you?’

‘How would I do that, then?’

‘You could stand
outside
of it…’

‘I can’t do that. It’s my costume. Why would they want me out of costume?’

Something had definitely got shaken loose in his head when he hit the floor. He tried to digest the logic of it, but his brain spat it out.

‘But…if you’re in there, in the Styrax. Well, they can’t, you know,
see
you in the photos. What’s the point?’

‘What do you mean, “What’s the point”?’ You think a photo taken with one of the stars of the show in his costume is pointless?’ Smurf was getting indignant.

‘No. Yes. I mean no. Of course it’s not. I mean, look. How can they even prove to anyone looking at the photo that you were actually inside it?’

‘Oh, they can.’

‘They can?’

‘Oh yes. They get their photos stamped.’ Smurf picked a rubber stamp up off a trestle table, slammed it down on one of the spare photos, and handed the shot to Mervyn. It read:
This photograph depicts me with a Styrax Sentinel from
Vixens from the Void
. The Styrax is being manned by original operator William ‘Smurf’ Smurfett
. ‘It’s a nice little convention sideline, this is.’ Smurf started dusting himself down with a clothes brush.

‘I suppose you heard about what happened on stage this morning?’

Smurf gave a throaty chuckle that sounded as though it belonged in a much larger person. ‘Oh yes, I heard about it. I would have given real money to see Simon’s face. Andrew Jamieson said it was the best panel he’s ever seen at a con.’

‘Did he really.’

‘I think there’ll be quite a few people queuing up to buy you a drink at the bar tonight. The little snit makes me want to vomit, always preening and showing off his stuff. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.’

‘Well, at least he’s got one left,’ said Mervyn, indicating the Styrax Smurf had just climbed out of.

‘Oh, no he hasn’t. This one’s mine. And if he comes sniffing around it he’s going to be sorry. I don’t care how much he offers—he can whistle for it.’

He patted it proudly. ‘Picked it up in a car boot sale in ‘98. Even if it’s seen better days and it’s a bit flaky round the edges, I still don’t mind climbing inside it for a few hours.’

Mervyn smiled. ‘A lot of people would say that about Vanity Mycroft…’

Smurf’s face froze. ‘What?’

‘Joke. Seen better days? Flaky around the edges? Sorry, bit naughty that—’

‘I don’t appreciate cracks like that—from you of all people!’

‘Sorry?’

‘I had nothing do with her. All right? Nothing! And I’ll thank you to keep your witty bloody comments to yourself!’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand…’

‘Just don’t mention that woman’s name all right? Just don’t mention it! She’s a lying cow and don’t let her convince you any different!’

Mervyn looked at him, dumbstruck.

‘Sorry Mervyn. I thought you’d heard about it. Everyone else has.’

Smurf and Mervyn emerged from the hotel into the car park, where the smokers skulked. It was much brighter than the gloom of the hotel and they blinked like startled librarians. Nicholas was already there, dragging greedily on his cigarette.

‘So what does she say about you?’ Mervyn asked.

‘I’d rather not repeat the old witch’s libel, if you don’t mind. I’m putting everything in the hands of my lawyers.’

Nicholas’s mouth twitched. ‘I expect you can go through the small claims court.’

‘It ain’t funny, Nicholas!’ Smurf fumed. ‘I’m not having her chuck lies about me left, right and centre. I’m going to take this all the way, you know. I’ll take a DNA test if I have to.’

‘Quite right, quite right,’ said Nicholas, looking concerned. He hastily changed the subject. ‘Anyway. How are you feeling, Mervy? Recovered from your battle with the Styrax?’

‘I think so. Thank God we didn’t have the money to make the things in aluminium.’

‘Good was it?’ said Smurf eagerly to Nicholas. ‘Didn’t see it meself.’

‘He fell beautifully, dear heart. Such grace. What a stuntman he was. Duggie “Don’t lean against that window” Fletcher would have been proud.’

It was Smurf’s turn to giggle along with Nicholas, and Mervyn’s to scowl.

‘Just what is Bernard’s problem?’

‘Don’t be too hard on him, Merv. I don’t know if you know this, but Bernard’s had a rough time of it these last few years. He couldn’t get another job in telly after the incident. After you—’

‘After
we
—’

‘Alright, after
we
caught him leaving the BBC with half of studio 6 up his jumper. And after
I
had to fire him.’

‘So what’s he been doing?’

Smurf had wedged a large cigar in his mouth and lit it with what looked like a small flamethrower. ‘He set up a special effects company in the late 80s, didn’t he? Lasted all of ten minutes before it went tits-up.’

‘I hardly see why he should fail. He made great model spaceships.’

‘He did it just before computer graphics became the in thing.’

‘Oh dear.’ Mervyn felt guilty now.
I definitely shouldn’t
have sent that young fan to show Bernard his ‘improved’ footage. Perhaps I should apologise to Bernard.

Their chat was interrupted by an unhealthy revving. They turned to see a huge wedge-shaped object growl into the hotel car park. It was a much larger and vibrantly coloured version of the Styrax Sentinel. Built around a car (a clapped-out Mini Metro, to be precise), it was a formidable-looking beast. A bunch of fans were clustered around it, giving off appreciative noises. Bernard stood to one side, eyeing them suspiciously. Occasionally, one would get near enough to touch it, and he flapped them away as if scaring crows from a field.

Mervyn whistled appreciatively. ‘Crikey, that’s the Styrax Superior, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how damned impressive it was.’

‘God yeah,’ said Smurf, admiring the fibreglass monolith. ‘A bit more bloody comfortable than the little ones, I can tell you that for nothing. Me and Sheldon used to fight over who got to operate it. Sheldon always won. Always. Let him do it just to shut him up. Prickly little bugger he was. Always giving it that.’ He flapped his hands like a glove puppet. ‘Yap, yap, yap… Used to call me “small fry” he did!
Half an inch
between us, and
he
called
me
small fry! And as for his politics… To tell you the truth, I’m glad the little fascist got turfed out during series two.’

Mervyn glared at Smurf reprovingly. Smurf realised what he’d been saying. ‘Course, I wasn’t glad about the other thing that happened. Not his burning to death. No,’ he gabbled hastily, ‘not that.’

‘It’s the best thing Bernard ever made,’ said Nicholas, looking at the Styrax Superior with genuine awe. ‘He really is a very good designer.’

‘So how did he get hold of it, then?’ said Mervyn. ‘I doubt he was able to shove that thing down his trousers during a quiet moment.’

‘No, he didn’t.’ Smurf piped up. ‘He bought up a lot of props quite legit after the series ended. He exhibits that thing around the country, doing fêtes and conventions. He does charity events too.’