by Nev Fountain
Mervyn nodded, and his head jingled sadly. With the wires sprouting out of his head, he looked like a dejected Thunderbirds puppet.
She started to tenderly unpick him from the evil wire thing, hook by hook. Her face was practically touching his; Mervyn caught a blast of smoky breath and the sickly odour of wet clothes left in the washing machine slightly too long. His eyes self-consciously roved across her face, unable to avoid inspecting every little wrinkle and blemish. He became strangely fascinated by her fine hairy lip which, even bleached, was quite impressive; not a bad piece of fuzz—for a teenager trying to grow a moustache for the first time.
‘This is my home-made dream-catcher,’ she said, poking her tongue out in concentration and licking her moustache. ‘It’s not meant to catch writers. But I suppose, when you think about it, writers are dream-weavers aren’t they?’
‘I suppose that’s true.’ Mervyn talked through gritted teeth. This was like trying to sustain a conversation with his dentist, trying to juggle discomfort, politeness and the need to please the person inflicting the pain.
‘Oh it’s definitely true. They’re the ones who spin dreams and make them reality.’ She poked his nose with her finger, as if he were an adorable schoolboy. ‘You’re a dreamer, and my dream-catcher caught you. Isn’t that funny?’
Mervyn smiled, uncomfortably.
* * *
‘Come in. My door’s always open.’
‘Very welcoming.’
‘No, sorry, I mean, my door is always open. I keep it open so that chi can flow into me.’
‘Aren’t you worried about burglary?’
‘There’s a lot of crime about here, but I never get burgled. I protect my space with white light and sea salt.’
When Mervyn went inside, he realised why she never got burgled. The place was a mess; there was nothing inside that would have excited any discerning crack addict who would want to ransack his way to a better neighbourhood.
From the outside, the house could have belonged to anyone, but the inside was distinctively Samantha. The décor was a collision of exotic cultures, fantasies and bottom-drawer philosophies, as confused as Samantha herself. Every piece of market-stall bric-a-brac—if it featured a unicorn, a dragon, a crystal or an erect penis—ended up on Samantha’s overladen shelves and windowsills. A full-sized dream-catcher with a Yin and Yang sign hung batlike from the ceiling, and faux-Hindu tapestries were pinned to every wall. The floors were covered with shiny scatter cushions, making movement somewhat difficult. Mervyn had to stretch his legs far apart and place each foot delicately in the tiny areas of available floor space, as though he were picking his way across a muddy field. The unmistakable smell of joss sticks hung round the house, impregnated in the fabrics and wallpapers. Fat coloured candles were littered around the hearth in various stages of decomposition, from full stick to flattened splat. Dominating the fireplace was a huge, jagged sculpture made of pieces of coloured glass. It was shaped a bit like a trident.
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Oh do you like it? I made it myself in my evening class. That’s my tree of life. Would you like a tea?’
‘Love one.’
‘I only have herbal. That okay?’
Ack.
‘Lovely.’
‘Blackcurrant, raspberry leaf or peppermint?’
‘Blackcurrant sounds marvellous.’ He dearly wanted builder’s tea, but he wasn’t going to get it. Not in this house.
Samantha bustled in and gave Mervyn a mug with a smiling bumblebee on the front and ‘Happy Daze!!!!’ written above the bee’s head.
As she clinked about the kitchen brewing her own strange concoction, Mervyn perched uncomfortably on a futon, sipping something that tasted like Ribena mixed with cough drops. Samantha brought in her own drink in a glass mug and sat near him, her eyes scorching his face.
‘It’s lovely to have visitors. I don’t get to see many people since Toby left me…’
‘Toby?’
‘Yes. He departed. He—well, he crossed the veil and departed to the spirit world…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s not too bad. He’s very happy. I still talk to him, with the help of Megan and her guide Raging Water. He’s about the only one I talk to these days.’ She slurped at the greenish-yellow liquid. It could have been peppermint, but it could equally have been heated urine.
‘Do you know, I haven’t even talked properly to anyone about how I killed poor Marcus? The police don’t want to listen to me about the way I killed Marcus. No one wants to talk to me about anything. Hah. Story of my current incarnation… I didn’t get a lot of work after Vixens, well, not good work, anyway. I did have a couple of lines in an Inspector Morse…and I played a nasty yuppie in EastEnders for a week and a half. And it didn’t seem the same, really. It was fun, you know, working my way up, playing bit parts in the background, gradually being allowed to get lines and put some clothes on…’
Mervyn listened awkwardly, waiting for the monologue to meander back to the subject of how she had killed Marcus.
‘But after Vixens, well, going back to non-speaking weeny parts didn’t really hold a lot of excitement for me. So I gave up the business, travelled a bit, then I opened a restaurant in Soho, jumping on the vegetarian bandwagon.’ Her face fell almost comically. ‘But I think I must have jumped on it too early, cos it went bust. Took all my telly money with it. Never mind. It was fun, you know? And I got to learn how to make beanburgers. And I’m a qualified reflexologist now.’
‘Qualified? I see.’ Mervyn’s reaction would have been identical if Samantha had just claimed she was a qualified wizard. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘It used to be called “zone therapy”, it’s all to do with the idea that most parts of your body are connected to the areas on your hands and feet. Manipulate the zones in those areas, and your whole body will feel the benefit. You can cure anything from headaches to infertility.’
The expression on Mervyn’s face was a picture, an impressive watercolour showing a landscape of scepticism. Even Samantha noticed.
‘Hey, I’ll show you.’
‘I don’t think I’m infertile. And I probably wouldn’t want to be cured if I were.’
‘No, no. You’ll feel the better for it, even if you haven’t got any specific aches and pains to speak of. Take off your shoes and socks.’
Mervyn recoiled.
‘I’d rather not…’
‘Go on. You’ll thank me. You’ll feel so much better.’
Humour her, for God’s sake. You’re investigating.
‘I’ll just take one off, if that’s all right…’
‘Okay.’
Mervyn shrugged off one of his Chelsea boots and peeled off his sock. The Englishman inside him cringed slightly, but he knew he had reasonable feet—no odd lumps, funny yellow toenails or strange clumps of hair where there shouldn’t be.
Samantha patted a spotty bean bag, inviting him to sit. He stretched out his leg and placed his foot between her legs, as though she were a blacksmith shoeing a horse. She pummelled his heel.
‘Do you think a shock, or a shared tragedy can bring people closer together?’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘I’ve always seen you as a caring sort of man.’
‘Me? Oh no. Hardly.’
‘Oh yes. A quiet, caring man. The sort that you don’t notice. Well, I noticed you. I was always very fond of you.’
Alarm klaxons sounded in Mervyn’s head.
‘I was reminded how much I was fond of you when you talked so eloquently about your work during the recording, before Marcus…before I killed him—’
‘Yes. Marcus. About killing him…’
‘I have talked to his spirit about it, and he does understand. He’s a bit cross, naturally…’
‘And what else did he have to say…?’
She put her finger to his lips in an irritatingly melodramatic fashion. ‘Plenty. But he’s crossed over now. He
’s joined Toby. They’re both happy. We won’t help his spirit’s passing by dwelling on the circumstances of his earthly demise.’
‘Oh. Right, of course. Fair enough.’
‘The thing is Mervy…’ She twiddled her fingers and looked up at him. She looked like she was going to confess to not doing her homework. ‘I believe in the life force, and I can only discuss the departed when engaged in a ritual of spiritual sharing.’
‘You mean… Like drinking tea?’
‘Not really, no.’ To Mervyn’s considerable surprise, she pushed him back on the bean bag, unzipping his trousers and pulling his penis out in one smooth motion. ‘I’m quite a lonely spirit.’ She kneaded it between her thumb and forefinger, and then started tugging at it urgently, like a bird trying to get a worm out of the ground. The penis was just as surprised as its owner, but it was no slouch; it was already starting to realise what was going on and was flexing its muscles ready for action. ‘Really lonely.’ She sat on him, and was already trying to insert him into her, one hand pulling the gusset of her knickers to the side, the other still squeezing him with an intensity that bordered on frenzy. It was all happening a bit quickly for Mervyn’s taste, like a desperate first-time teenage fumble.
‘No one treats me seriously, you see. They see some mad old mare who was quite kooky and endearing when she was young and attractive, but kooky and endearing doesn’t last Merv… In a couple of years, I’ll be a bonkers old trout, and then who’s going to look after me?’
He realised that Samantha was the kind of actress—the kind of woman—who could only be honest when she was being physical; the ones who assumed conversation was artifice (usually they were the ones treated disgracefully by silver-tongued thespians who lied to them each and every day) and who only associated the carnal act with the baring of the soul.
She pulled her shirt over her head—no bra. Her boobs were brown and shapeless; age had deflated them, and they dangled above him like giant tea bags. Builder’s tea bags, not herbal tea bags, at least.
His body was pressed low, sliding down the beanbag until only his head was left on it, embedded deep in its folds until he could barely hear. If I get pushed any deeper in this thing, I’ll suffocate, and in a million years time I’ll be discovered as a tie-dyed fossil.
He rocked his shoulders, and used the momentum until his body dispersed the polystyrene nuggets inside the beanbag and his head was practically flat on the floor.
He’d put his mug and his untouched tea on the carpet, and now he was nose-to-nose with it, the bumblebee filling his vision, leering at him, its cheery bee face distorted into that of an evil mutant insect.
Then he realised he was in danger of losing his focus. His penis was starting to soften and dwindle; it wasn’t penetrating her like some tree-trunk-sized battering ram, it was nuzzling her crotch like a senile old dog. If it deflates, there are two things that could happen, Mervyn thought grimly. Either (a) She’ll blub about being old and ugly, she’ll expect you to put your arm around her and comfort her and tell her she’s a wonderful person for the next three hours, and she’ll tell me how she ‘killed’ Marcus…
Or (b) She’ll just go into some masochistic frenzy about being old and ugly, accuse you of taking advantage of her like everyone else does (conveniently forgetting that she initiated this), probably throw a few things, and you’ll end up pushed out of the front door with your cock still hanging out of your trousers. Bad thing. Won’t learn anything that way, except the ambient temperature of the street outside.
He couldn’t take the risk of (b) happening. Samantha was going to notice sooner or later. She could ring Megan and Raging Water, and they could all hold hands and get in touch with his dead penis and bring it back to the world of the living. He had to keep things going. He had to do something.
So he did a bad thing. He thought of Cheryl.
He filled his mind with memories of her tongue probing his mouth, and the soft caramel smell of her hair as she nuzzled his neck. Of making love in Hyde Park behind a bush. Of her slight gasp as he penetrated her in the darkened production office of Vixens.
Oh forgive me, Cheryl. Just understand what I’m doing here. I’m doing it for you.
Instantly, his penis woke from its extended nap, sprang upright, and slid smoothly inside Samantha like a well-oiled piston.
Samantha grabbed his shoulders and let the air out of her lungs very slowly, forcing it out between clenched teeth and making a hissing sound like a steam train arriving at a station. She threw her head back, shaking her hair out so it sashayed along her back, then she slumped forward so the hair pooled around her shoulders and almost covered her face. She opened her eyes, and fixed Mervyn with a fractured grin. The effect was part crazed seductress, part rabid Afghan hound. The rabid Afghan hound aspect was enhanced when she started making low growls in her throat, gnashing her teeth and snapping at the air. Then, eyes fixed like lasers on Mervyn, she started pushing up and down very slowly, like a fairground ride just starting to move.
‘So,’ he gasped, ‘Marcus…he was a bit annoyed you killed him?’
‘Oh…oh…oh, he was a little miffed, but he understood.’
‘Oh…good.’
‘If only he could have seen what I could see. Dark forces. Negative karma. It was everywhere in the room. Couldn’t you feel it? It was in the water.’
‘Was that why you asked for a different bottle?’
‘Yes, of course I… Oh yeah… Of course I did. I couldn’t have…uh, I couldn’t have drunk any of the water on the table. The water was bad.’
‘Bad?’
‘Oh… Yes. Oh… Oh yes…’
There was something on his foot. Something furry and quivering. Tickling. Claws grazed his heel. Obviously Samantha’s cat fancied himself as a bit of a reflexology expert too. Get off, he pleaded in his head. Get off you hairy bastard.
The cat was trying an experimental nibble of one of his toes. Right. That’s enough.
He twitched his leg, catapulting the animal…somewhere. In amid Samantha’s moans, he heard a distant crash and a squeak of indignation.
‘What do you mean, the water was bad?’
‘I mean, oh, oh, oh! I mean it was ah… Estuary English water. They say it’s from a tributary of the River Severn, but I read on the internet that it’s from a spring in Tanzania, where people are dying for want of clean water. It’s completely unethical. I had them get me some other water that was ethically sourced to escape the bad karma… I do so hate to make a fuss, but when it comes to something like that I have to make myself…ah…oh…ah…heard! Oh! Oh! OH! AH-HURRGGGHHHHHH!’
She started hooting and hollering, and ground her hips into Mervyn’s pelvis as she came, her eyes scrunched into slits and her hair plastered with sweat. She tightened around his penis, and despite the discomfort and his preoccupied brain buzzing with this new development, he felt himself empty into her.
She fell off him, and lay gasping on a futon.
‘I should have told him about the bad karma,’ she said breathlessly. ‘But I didn’t. If only I’d shared my knowledge of the unseen energies…’
‘So the fact you didn’t…?’
‘Meant I killed him. I’m so sorry about it all. But Marcus forgave me. He was so lovely to me…’
‘Oh, good.’ Mervyn made the fatal mistake of sounding disappointed right after sex.
She gasped. ‘You did enjoy that? Our spiritual sharing?’
‘Oh yes. Lovely,’ said Mervyn, smiling hastily.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ her eyes widened and her bottom lip trembled like a toddler.
‘Oh definitely,’ Mervyn tried to sound enthusiastic.
‘You look like your karma’s slipped.’
‘Well… Your cat was a bit of a distraction.’
‘What, Toby? Surely not! He’s harmless!’ She rushed to the window, and pulled out the cat. He was rigid as a board, his face frozen in bug-eyed puzzlement, his paws stretching in mute surrender.
Mervyn remembered a time many years ago when he was invited into his girlfriend’s bedroom. Instead of, as he expected, a fumble on the quilt, she introduced him to each and every one of her dozens of cuddly toys. This was not like that. This was a hundred times freakier.
Samantha tickled Toby under the chin. Toby was unmoved by the show of love. ‘Awww! I was very sad when he passed through the ethereal veil, but he does visit me. I still leave food down and he always eats it…’
Wait a minute. If that’s Toby—then what was nibbling at my…
Impaled on the tree of life, where he’d propelled it with his foot, was the biggest, nastiest, hairiest rat Mervyn had ever seen.
* * *
Mervyn staggered from her flat, shuddering with the memory. Not the memory involving the rat. The other memory. The sadness of Samantha as she bore down on his helpless form unnerved him.
Well that was frustrating, and an utter waste of time.
And it didn’t help the investigation either.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mervyn had experienced a lot of strange things that week, but even he, now battle-hardened against the unexpected, was utterly unprepared for the phone call from Robert Mulberry.
‘We’re going to re-record “The Burning Time” commentary.’
‘What?’
‘We’re doing it at BBC TV Centre, the day after tomorrow. Can you make it?’
‘You’re not serious. How the hell did you get permission to do another DVD commentary, after all the protests? Not to mention the murder? Have your bosses gone completely mad?’
‘I pitched it as a tribute to Marcus Spicer. The BBC is scared of protests, but they’re equally determined not to look like they give into pressure groups. “The Burning Time” DVD is coming out, whether the Godbotherers like it or not.’
‘The timing is in shockingly bad taste. For goodness’ sake, couldn’t you have waited a couple of months?’
