by Nev Fountain
There were no cameras pointing at the entrance to the coal cellar; for the simple reason that the coal cellar didn’t lead anywhere. It was just a featureless brick room completely cut off from the rest of the house.
The hooded man would soon fix that. He hefted a heavy hammer, ideal for breaking cement.
* * *
‘I don’t like your tone,’ huffed Graham. ‘Look around you. Is there a statuette of the Virgin Mary in any of these cases?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t expect it to be on display,’ snapped Mervyn crossly. ‘It’s stolen property and you know it. You probably have it tucked away so you can take it out every night and stroke it.’
‘How dare you! If you weren’t creator of the best television show in television history, I would call the police here and now.’ Graham switched off the UV lights, leaving only the desklamp to throw their shadows on the wall. ‘As it is, I would like you to leave.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘I may never ask you to contribute to one of my videos, charity meals or documentaries ever again.’
‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’
A BLEEH-BLEEH-BLEEH noise charged around the room, loud and unpleasant. Mervyn clamped his hands to his ears. ‘What’s that?’ he shouted.
‘It’s the museum alarm,’ bellowed Graham. He hauled his corpulent physique to the door with surprising speed. ‘The motion sensors.’
* * *
The alarm was going, but the hooded man didn’t care. He only wanted to get into the building.
Once he was in he had no intention of leaving. Not without the statuette. And he was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
* * *
Graham pulled a tiny handle, revealing a door which blended into the panelling of the wall; it was barely visible to the untrained eye. It opened on to a tiny cupboard-sized space crammed with television screens. Graham climbed in and Mervyn followed.
Graham gaped at one of the screens. There was a huge hole in the wall next to a pile of rubble. A lump hammer leaned nonchalantly against an antique hatstand. ‘What’s going on?’
A figure ran across one of the screens. It appeared on another screen, then it scuttled across a third, as if a mouse was loose inside the television sets. Then it appeared in close-up.
It was a man in a hoodie.
The figure stopped and looked up, directly into the camera. Mervyn shivered. The head was completely covered in a black balaclava and the eyes were shielded by sunglasses. It was as if the invisible man had decided to pay them a visit.
‘Go away!’ shouted Graham at the camera. ‘Go away or I’ll call the police!’
‘Do your cameras have a public address system?’
‘No,’ muttered Graham, shamefaced. ‘I always shout at the television. Force of habit.’
‘I think we’d better think of something more practical we can do.’
They looked up and the figure was gone.
Graham pushed a button on the wall. Nothing happened.
‘What was that supposed to do?’
‘It’s meant to lower the security walls. He’s switched them off. How could he do that?’ With shaking fingers, Graham prised his phone out of his shirt pocket. ‘I knew I should have installed that panic room,’ he said, flipping open the phone’s carapace to reveal the buttons. ‘I’m phoning the police.’
‘Is there somewhere safe we can go in the meantime?’
‘The study. We can lock ourselves in there.’
‘Come on!’ He pushed Graham in front of him, but the fat fan was too slow. He was grossly out of shape, and wasn’t looking where he was going as he was trying to dial. Mervyn’s brain screamed with impatience as he steered Graham through the house; the hooded man knew he had been discovered. He would have to move quickly.
Mervyn didn’t realise quite how quickly, though, and only got the first inkling when something descended over his head, obscuring his vision, and his legs were pushed from under him. He made an unscheduled meeting with the floor below.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Mervyn couldn’t see.
He was dragged into another room and his hands and feet tied to a chair. There was something on his face that smelt of fabric conditioner. A pillowcase, he guessed. There was also another odour. A sickly odour. A sickly, sweaty odour. A sickly, sweaty, meaty odour. A sickly, sweaty, meaty, curry-flavoured—
‘This is appalling,’ said a familiar voice.
Graham was directly behind him. From the feel of Graham’s hands next to his, he was tethered to another chair facing in the opposite direction. Mervyn always felt he had a habit of ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. He measured his location in degrees of wrongitude and crapitude. Tied to a 20-stone man in a big dark house, empty save for a violent religious nut? I would put this at about 100 degrees wrong, 200 degrees crap.
‘What’s going on?’ wheezed Mervyn.
‘I don’t know,’ trembled Graham. ‘He tied you up, and then dragged us both in here.’
Mervyn shook his body vigorously, and found that by jerking his neck forward he could edge the pillow case from his head, one inch at a time. He finally dislodged it, and it fluttered down and rested on his knees.
They were back in the main exhibit room of Graham’s pocket museum. The cabinets had been illuminated, their lights spilling eerily around them, like they were the star performers on a 70s TV variety show.
‘My God,’ whimpered Graham. ‘He’s switched on the normal electric lighting. The damage will be hideous…’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Oh yes. He’s still here. He just came in a minute ago to have a look at us.’
Mervyn shook his head wearily. ‘Why?’
‘Probably to check we weren’t escaping.’
‘No I mean “Why have I ended up tied to you?”’ Mervyn sighed. ‘That settles it; there must be a God. This much vindictive hatred can’t be the result of natural selection.’
‘He could be back at any moment. You have to move fast.’
‘Move fast? In what direction? What do you expect me to do?’
‘When he tied me up I struggled a bit, so I could drop my phone in the confusion.’
‘Good thinking Graham. Where is it?’
‘Over there.’
Mervyn looked, and sure enough, nestled by the side of a pillar, was a small square of silver. ‘Over there? What can I do about it?’
‘Try to reach it.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I never joke about anything.’
Mervyn tried to push his legs against the ropes, but nothing happened. ‘No chance.’ But he had another go, harder. The ropes moved slightly, and he found he could move his leg about three inches away from the chair leg. ‘I’ve got a leg partially released.’
‘Well a partial release isn’t good enough. You’ve got to release the whole thing.’
He pushed again. The ropes gave way. His leg came away from the chair so fast he almost kicked himself in the head. ‘It’s released.’
‘Finally.’
He stretched out his leg towards the phone, but came up short. ‘It’s too far away.’
‘You’ve got to get it,’ babbled Graham, ‘it’s our only hope.’
Mervyn strained with all his energy. He found that, if he slumped low in his chair, he could slip the ropes a couple of inches further up his body and get more reach. His toes teased the edge of the phone, but it stayed stubbornly in the corner. ‘Right,’ gasped Mervyn. ‘Third time lucky.’
He lunged, rocking the chair forward and almost tipping Graham on top of him in the process (that would not have been good). He slammed his heel dead square on the phone, and scraped it along the floor. ‘Got it.’
‘Good work.’
He dragged the phone until it was directly under his chair and eased it to where his fingers tickled the floor. They scuttled towards the phone and scooped it up.
‘Okay guys, to business.�
�
It was a strange voice.
The hooded man was in the doorway. They hadn’t heard him arrive.
Mervyn quietly slipped the phone in his jacket pocket.
‘I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I just want to know one thing…’ The voice was harsh, metallic, slurred. He was using something to distort it.
‘…The statuette of the Virgin Mary and Child. I want to know where it is.’
Graham’s eyes bulged. ‘As I told Mervyn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, you do.’ He advanced on them with a crowbar. ‘Where’s the Madonna and Child?’
Mervyn raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you mean the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies?’
‘You’re funny. I hope Graham can laugh through the pain.’
Graham rippled with fear.
‘You can torture us if you like,’ said Mervyn. ‘It won’t make any difference.’
The hooded man shook his head emphatically. ‘I’m not going to torture.. Well, not you, anyway.’
The hooded man dashed into a corner and brought the crowbar down on a cabinet, smashing the glass. Graham squealed in pain.
‘Where’s the Virgin Mary?’ the hooded man demanded.
‘I don’t know!’ wailed Graham.
The hooded man pulled out an artefact from the cabinet. It was nothing more than a piece of plastic guttering decorated with used disposable razors, glued to a lawn strimmer and sprayed a deep metallic blue. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s Arkadia’s bazooka. She used it on Magaroth’s imperial robot guard in “Assassins of Destiny” episode two…’
‘Not any more it isn’t.’ He threw it on the ground and stamped on it.
‘Noooooo!’ screamed Graham.
Grinding his hobnail boots on the prop until nothing was left, the hooded man went to another cabinet, smashing it with a swift jab from his crowbar. He picked up a tiny object. It was an air freshener painted black, with a telephone cord sprouting out of the side. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s Medula’s personal communicator,’ sobbed Graham. ‘It was featured in season—’
‘Not any more.’ The hooded figure threw it against the wall with all his might. It shattered on impact, and the bits cascaded down the wall. Graham wailed like his feet had been dipped in molten lead.
‘You animal,’ said Mervyn, casting worried glances at Graham’s purple face. ‘Can’t you see what this is doing to him?’
‘It’s your choice, Graham,’ grated the figure. ‘The Virgin Mary and Child versus your entire collection. Is it worth more than all the other rubbish here?’
Graham shook his head, unable to speak. Barely able to think.
‘Is it?’
‘No!’ he blurted.
‘Then where’s the Madonna and Child?’
Graham hesitated for a second too long, and he was rewarded with another crash, as a third cabinet felt the impact of the crowbar. The hooded man pulled out the crash helmet; the one Graham had proudly showed Mervyn earlier. He held it by the shower hose attachment and started to swing it, low and wide, like a priest swinging incense.
‘It’s in the wall! It’s in the wall!’
‘Where in the wall?’
‘Behind the Radio Times cover!’
A Radio Times cover hung on the far wall, encased in a dark hardwood frame. Predictably, the cover featured the Vixens, firing their guns in all directions and heralding the second series of Vixens from the Void in 1987. The hooded man walked across and tugged at it. It clicked and swung smoothly open, revealing a small wall safe.
‘Combination?’ said the hooded man, still swinging the space helmet menacingly.
‘It’s the date of broadcast of the first Vixens episode.’
‘Well how should I know that, you fat fuck? What’s the bloody combination?’
‘Eighteen left, nine right, 86 left.’
The hooded figure twiddled the dial and the door of the safe fell open, revealing a cheap plaster statuette of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus. It was neither particularly pretty nor particularly well painted. It looked like a cheap prop, because that was what it was.
The hooded figure eased the statuette reverently out of the safe, behaving like it was the most important thing in the world. Mervyn knew the Godbotherers took their religion very seriously, but couldn’t see why they would hold a lump of plaster of Paris in such high esteem.
‘Goodbye, gentlemen. Do not be alarmed. I’m sure the police will be here before you know it.’ He disappeared from the room.
They sat there, surrounded by glass and debris, listening to the silence.
‘Can you reach that disposable razor with your foot?’ said Graham at last, his voice thick with misery.
‘Graham, that razor is 20 years old,’ snapped Mervyn. ‘There’s no way it could cut through anything.’
‘No…’ snivelled Graham. ‘I just wanted you to reach it, and push it over there, with the other disposable razor over there… Because they go together… And then you could try and put the third one there, and push the bit of drainpipe to go with them… Because they go together, you see…’
Mervyn realised that the large man was suffering from shock. They would have to get themselves released soon; before Graham started screaming and eating his own face.
We’ve got to get out of—
There was a ‘thud’ outside the door, and an almighty crash.
‘My God, what’s happening now?’ whimpered Graham.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The leather-clad biker strode into the room. Hands reached up, straps were unfastened, and the crash helmet was pulled off.
It was Mick.
‘Are you following me? That’s harassment,’ said Mervyn, angrily.
Mick produced a card. ‘Here’s the number of the Police Complaints Commission. Call it and make a complaint.’ She proffered it, but of course Mervyn wasn’t able to take it.
‘Oh very good,’ said Mervyn.
She stuck it back in her pocket and left the room, returning seconds later, dragging the hooded man in by the scruff of his neck. Mick was completely encased in motorbike leathers, and Mervyn could now make out ‘HELL’S VIXENS’ spelled out on her back in shiny pointy studs.
She grappled with their ropes. ‘He’s used good knots,’ she said, grunting.
‘Can you get us free?’
‘Yeah. Just might take a bit longer than normal.’
Graham wobbled in concern. ‘What do you mean “normal”?’
‘What I mean.’
The ropes dropped to the floor, and Mervyn and Graham rubbed their wrists.
‘Just walk about and touch your toes,’ said Mick. ‘My boyfriends find it helps their pins and needles.’
She dragged the hooded figure further into the room; like a caveman who had chosen a mate. She propped him up in Graham’s expensive leather chair and swivelled him to face Mervyn and Graham.
‘All right, let’s see who this is.’
She pulled the hood back and rolled up the balaclava, tugging it off.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
‘Aiden?’
That wasn’t what Mervyn expected at all. He was expecting some religious fanatic pursuing him in the name of the Godbotherers, as part of some Da Vinci Code-style plot.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Graham.
‘It’s Aiden, Marcus Spicer’s bodyguard.’
‘I told you so, Mervyn Stone,’ said Mick. ‘Henchmen. They’re evil. All of them.’
They tied him to the chair. Mick took the opportunity to go through Aiden’s pockets. She plucked out his wallet and went through it, chucking out credit cards and making a shower of plastic confetti.
‘Credit card…video club card…membership of the Spicer Institute…credit card… Hmm. Hello…’
Mervyn sidled up to her shoulder.
‘Membership of a squash club in Kensington. Très mucho posho. But it’s in the name of a Mr M. S
picer.’
‘Why would he have Marcus’s membership card?’
‘Perhaps he used to pick up Marcus’s sweaty kecks for him. You know how these types are with their burly butlers… Anyway, let’s ask him, shall we?’ She took off her glove and slapped his cheek with it. Aiden groaned. ‘Come on, Mr Atheist. Time to come towards the light.’ She glared at the unconscious bodyguard. ‘Atheists,’ she growled. ‘I hate atheists.’
‘I thought you’d hate the other lot,’ said Mervyn. ‘The Christians. You being a “Hell’s Vixen” and all.’
‘Me and Christians have more in common. We both believe in hell. The difference is, they see it as a bad thing.’
Aiden started to stir.
Mick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not believing in hell is irritating. And rude.’
Mervyn would not have wanted to be in Aiden’s shoes at that moment.
‘Come on, Sleeping Ugly, wakey wakey,’ growled Mick.
Aiden woke up, eyes rolling in bafflement. Before he could get his bearings, Mick grabbed each of his cheeks between a thumb and forefinger and forced him to look into her eyes.
‘Okay, beautiful. You’ve not been very nice to Mervyn Stone. And that means you’ve not been very nice to me. If I were in full costume, I’d probably just hang you up on the wall and take your skin off with my electrowhip. Lucky for you it’s at the menders.’
‘Pshh uff.’
She let go of his cheeks.
‘Piss off,’ he repeated.
‘You’re going to be nice, aren’t you?’
‘Let me go, bitch.’
She wielded her glove again and slapped him hard across the other cheek. ‘Don’t tell me what to do. I only take orders from one guy here, and his name is decorating my arse. I don’t think your name is on my arse, last time I looked. Unless your name is Harvey Nicks.’
Mervyn stepped forward. ‘What’s all this about, Aiden? What’s so important about that statuette?’
Aiden didn’t say anything.
‘Look, I was Marcus’s friend too. Surely we’re on the same side here.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’
