by Kim Newman
‘A houngan?’ quizzed Barbara.
‘Voodoo sorcerer,’ shuddered Vanessa. ‘Like Mama Cartouche, remember?’
‘It doesn’t have to be voodoo,’ said Richard. ‘That’s an Afro-Caribbean tradition. Europe has more than enough witchery to go round. Australasia and the Americas too. Everywhere except Antarctica, and that’s only because the Sphinx of the Ice won’t allow it. In this case, however, I think we are dealing with something vaguely voodoo.’
‘So there is a culprit?’
‘I definitely suspect a suspect,’ said Richard. ‘Someone is deliberately shaping events, channelling a force, and, as it happens, charging money for it. What we have here is a hit-man, as Fred suggested, but one with an unusual MO. Working with The Northern Barstows, through the psychic energy generated by the machinery of the show, and directing it, essentially, to kill people. To order, for cash. So, yes, there’s a culprit. One who either needs or wants money for their services. In my experience, that tends to rule out ghosts and demons. Some miserly spirits cling to the idea of worldly goods even when they’re beyond a plane in which they’d be any good to them. You’ve heard of the ghost who collects bright trinkets – coins and jewels – like a magpie. A nuisance, but not serious, especially since you usually get the pleasant surprise of finding the hoard of goodies at the end of the day. This isn’t like that. This is large sums transferred to Swiss bank accounts. This is organised crime.’
Barbara, intent on what he was saying, put down her salmon sandwich.
‘But how is it done? How can something that happens on a television programme, which boils down to actors pretending, lead to something happening to real people out there in the real world? When Delia rode Jockie to death, what happened to make Della do the same thing to Jamie? Or am I getting the order wrong?’
‘I have ideas about that. Vanessa, what was the most significant thing Della told us about the case?’
Vanessa shrugged.
‘Think “Penny for the Guy”.’
‘Old clothes,’ said Vanessa, tumbling to it at once. ‘We were told that Jamie fired a groom who was supposed to have stolen some of their clothes. Jamie thought the actors’ costumes included items filched from him and Della.’
‘“And not just clothes, but other things, personal things.’”
Vanessa snapped her fingers. ‘It’s pins! Pins in dolls!’
Barbara shook her head. She hadn’t caught up.
‘What do you think the personal things were?’ Vanessa asked. ‘We can find out from Della, but what do you think—’
‘Anything really. Combs, with hair. Make-up. Cigarette-ends. Rings. Things impregnated with sweat, skin, hair. Clothes should do it alone, but the rest would put the pink bow on it.’
‘Voodoo dolls,’ said Barbara, catching on. ‘On the Barstows, Mama Cartouche made a doll of Brenda, with nail-clippings and hair pressed in, and stuck pins through it. Brenda had twinges.’
‘Probably where our culprit got the idea,’ said Richard.
‘You have to admit this is a new one,’ said Vanessa. ‘Fashioning characters on a television programme into voodoo dolls, then torturing or killing them in front of fifteen million people…’
‘Some of whom believe in the characters. June said the Barstows were more real to viewers than their own families. All that belief has to mean something, has to do something, has to go somewhere!’
‘God, there’s a paper in this,’ said Barbara.
Richard and Vanessa looked at her.
‘But there is,’ she said. ‘This is what I’ve been saying all along. TV soaps matter. They shape reality. I’m not saying it’s a good thing, I’m saying it’s a thing thing.’
Richard slipped an arm around the Professor and kissed her ear.
‘Hold off on publication for a while, Barbara. Let’s at least nab the killer first.’
‘I have a name,’ said Fred.
They looked at the stage door. Fred had come in, motorcycle helmet under his arm. Richard knew he had heard enough to be up to speed.
‘I went after the gambling syndicate, the ones who hired Jamie’s murderer,’ said Fred. ‘Price hauled in some minor faces, put the squeeze on… and someone coughed up a name. Our hit-man.’
Fred let the pause run.
‘Do tell,’ prompted Richard.
‘Stop faffing about, Regent,’ said Vanessa. ‘This isn’t the end of an episode that we can pick up on Thursday.’
‘“Darius”,’ said Fred. ‘That’s the name he uses. “Darius Barstow”.’
Richard was sure he had turned to where the camera would be and frozen his face long enough for the credits to start rolling.
He shivered as he heard the Barstows theme in his head.
XI.
Head of Wardrobe at O’Dell-Squiers was Madame Louise Ésperance d’Ailly-Guin (‘Mama-Lou’), a tall, slender woman, graphite-black, with large, lively eyes and a bewitching islands accent. Her office ensemble ran to a red mushroom-shaped turban, white silk strapless evening dress with artfully ragged hems and matching PVC go-go boots. Behind her desk was an altar to Erzulie Freda and a framed snapshot of a younger Mama-Lou frozen in the middle of a snake-waving dance under a Haitian waterfall.
Richard, inclined by instinct to look gift horses in the mouth, felt the same way about a gift houngan.
Tara, the wardrobe assistant Richard had seen on set, was showing Mama-Lou a range of designs for Priscilla’s future dresses. Mama-Lou pencilled crosses on the rejects, flicking away hours of work.
Richard did not insist on being attended to. It was more useful to observe.
Last night, in the TV room at the guest house, Richard had for the first time watched The Northern Barstows as it went out to the nation, even though there was an interesting-sounding programme about cane toads on BBC Two. Barbara, Vanessa and Fred helped him through it. He turned the sound down during the adverts and covered the screen with a sheet of grease-proof paper to shield his senses from mind-altering subliminals in the baked bean and gravy commercials. It was the episode he had followed from script to shooting, so there shouldn’t have been surprises. Vanessa thought they hadn’t used her best ‘takes’ and detected the hand of June O’Dell in the editing suite. A few interesting bits and pieces were slipped in that hadn’t come up at the script meeting, which must have been shot when he wasn’t looking – a shadow stalking through the fogs of Bleeds, hobnail boots clumping on the cobbles; a mysterious wind blowing through the Grand Old Duke, giving Bev the new barmaid horrors; objects wobbling slowly (on visible strings) around the boardroom, indicating a poltergeist problem. The curse was being worked into the show, which set up Mavis’s speech about calling a ghost-hunter.
‘In trut’, nix to ahll these,’ Mama-Lou said to Tara, returning the last design.
The girl was exasperated, dreading the work of going back to the beginning.
‘They won’ be needed,’ said the head of Wardrobe. ‘Word come from on high.’
Mama-Lou thumbed upwards, at the ceiling. The Wardrobe Department was a windowless bunker beneath the writers’ den. Multiples of costumes hung in cellophane shrouds, continuity notes pinned to them, indicating when they had last been worn on air. Shoes, hats, coats, gloves, scarfs and belts had their own racks. Principal characters had niches, where their two or three outfits were looked after. There was a separate room, temperature-controlled and with a combination lock, for June O’Dell’s wardrobe, which was twice the size of the rest of the cast’s put together.
‘We can’t keep Lovely Legs in that fruit punch frock,’ said Tara. ‘It goes fuzzy in transmission and looks like she’s wearing a swarm of bees. Technical have sent several memos about it. Sound on vision. And the poor cow at least needs a new pair of tights.’
Mama-Lou drew a finger across her throat.
Tara was sobered. Mama-Lou put the finger up to her mouth.
‘Hush-hush, chile,’ she said. ‘Don’t nobody know outside of you, me and the loas.
’
Mama-Lou’s eyes flashed at Richard.
Whatever it was nobody knew, he didn’t know it either. Unless he did.
‘Now, run off and see to Dudley’s latest split trews, while I converse wit’ this gentlemahn.’
Tara’s head bobbed and she withdrew.
‘Now, Mist’ Jeperson…’
‘Richard.’
‘Reechar’.’
Mama-Lou reached out and touched his chest, appreciatively feeling the nap of his velvet collar.
‘I like a mahn who knows how to dress.’
She left his jacket alone.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m interested in how you costume some of your characters. You can guess the ones I mean.’
‘Jockie and Della. Prince Abu. Sir Josiah and Falmingworth. Lady Gulliver. Masterman and Dr Laurinz. Mr Gatling. Pieter Bierack.’
She had obviously been waiting for someone to ask.
‘You have a few more on your list than I do.’
‘I’ve been workin’ here long-time, Reechar’. I’m firs’ to know who’s comin’ and who’s goin’. When word comes down from on-high, I have to dress the word, send it out decent to the studio floor. You dig?’
‘I think so.’
‘A costume is more than jus’ clothes. It’s the t’ings in the pockets, the pins under the lapels, the dirt in the soles of the shoes, weathering and ageing…’
She led him to the ‘Ben’ rack, raised cellophane from a jacket, showed the fray of the sleeve-cuffs, a loose button, a stitched-over stab-mark. From the pocket, like a stage magician, she pulled out a stream of items: a bus ticket, a paper bag of lemon-drops, an item of female underwear, a tied fishing-fly in the form of a water-boatman.
She smiled, showing sharp, very white teeth.
He laughed as she flourished an artificial flower.
‘I’m not so interested in Ben Barstow,’ said Richard.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me if he be interested in you,’ said Mama-Lou.
Richard wondered if he was exuding psychic pheromones. Since he and Barbara had happened, people treated him differently. Mama-Lou was closer to him than decorum would advise. And she was right – Dudley Finn had been giving him glances. And so had June O’Dell.
‘Very flattering,’ he said, ‘but not the field I wish to explore. Where are the racks for Jockie and Della?’
Mama-Lou made a fist, then opened it suddenly.
‘Gone. To the ’cinerator. No room roun’ here. New come, so old gotta go. Policy directive.’
She looked to the ceiling.
‘And all the others. Gone too?’
She made an up-in-smoke gesture.
‘I’d have been interested to know how you costumed them.’
‘Carefully,’ she said. ‘We go to great lengths to procure the… suitable items, to give them the proper… treatment.’
‘You don’t make the costumes yourselves? You buy them in.’
‘Some t’ings we run up here. Got an award for it. Mavis Barstow wears only original Mama-Lou designs. She insists. Not’ing June O’Dell puts on has been roun’ a human body before. Some of the other women’s t’ings we do the same. Had a Carnaby Street designer under contract for this new girl’s clothes. He’ll be gone, now. Change of policy. For the ones you’ll be interested in, we procure. We copy sometimes, but we make the copy good. You understand what I’m tellin’?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Good. You put a stop to it?’
She stood back and folded her arms. He didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what she meant.
‘I’ll certainly try.’
Mama-Lou nodded, once. ‘Good. A sacrilege is no good to anyone. If a blessing is put to an evil end, evil comes to everyone, even the mos’ blessed. Maybe the idea comes from my island, but none of the conjuring comes from me. Dig?’
‘Dug.’
‘I follow Erzulie Freda, loa of love. This be the path of the Saturday Man. Know him?’
‘Baron Samedi?’
‘Hush-hush, Reechar’,’ she said, laying a finger on his lips. ‘Say not his name, lest he come to your house. Caution agains’ the Saturday Man. And come this way.’
With beckoning finger, Mama-Lou lured him deeper into the bunker, past more and more racks. Finally, she came to two new racks, which held only hangers and cellophane. No clothes yet.
‘I said I know firs’ when new people come. They get a rack, even before the role is cast. These are the ghost-hunters’ racks.’
Character names were stuck to the racks. An invisible fist thumped against Richard’s chest.
ROGET MASTERMAN. DR CANBERRA LAURINZ.
‘Sound familiar?’ asked Mama-Lou.
While Richard was calming, Mama-Lou placed something soft on his head. She looked at him sideways.
‘Not your style, but you’ll need it.’
He took off the headwear and looked at it. It was an old flat cap.
Mama-Lou stroked his coat again, more wistful than flirtatious.
‘Now you go think what has to be done. Then come back to Mama-Lou, give blessings to Erzulie Freda, and we make a conjuring. Dig?’
‘The most.’
XII.
‘Did Mama-Lou dispense any useful wisdom?’ Vanessa asked him.
‘Yes, dear. You’re being written out.’
She swore, elegantly. ‘You got this from the wardrobe mistress?’
‘No more dresses for Lovely Legs, ergo… no more Lovely Legs.’
Richard was holding council of war in the boarding house sitting room. Fred had used his best ‘intimidating skinhead’ glower to scare off a commercial traveller who had been settling down to ogle Vanessa and Barbara through slits cut in the Evening Mail. Now, they had privacy.
‘Have they tumbled that she’s a plant?’ asked Fred.
Richard wondered about that.
‘I think not,’ he concluded. ‘They want shot of Lovely Legs to make room for new developments.’
‘The poltergeist plot?’ prompted Barbara, who had sat in with the writing pack all day. ‘It’s come out of nowhere and isn’t really the Barstows style. No matter how unlikely things have got before, with plastic surgery or unknown twins coming back from Australia, they’ve stayed within the bounds of possibility. No ghosts or UFOs.’
Realising the others were giving her hard looks, Barbara wondered what she had said wrong, then caught up with herself.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not easy to get used to. This is new ground for me. Of course, there are ghosts and UFOs. That’s what you’re here for.’
‘No UFOs,’ said Fred. ‘That’s rubbish. There aren’t any little green men from outer space.’
‘Yet,’ said Richard.
‘There are ghosts,’ said Vanessa. ‘And other things.’
‘Vampires?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard and Vanessa.
‘Werewolves?’
‘More than you’d think,’ said Richard. ‘And all manner of shapeshifters. There are were-amoebae, which need to be strictly regulated.’
‘Possession, like in The Exorcist?’
‘God, yes,’ shuddered Vanessa. ‘Not a favourite.’
Barbara shook her head and sighed.
‘Welcome to the club, Prof,’ said Fred. ‘I know how you feel. This isn’t natural for me either.’
‘The poltergeist plot?’ prompted Richard.
‘Yes, that,’ said Barbara, drawn back to her original thought train. ‘For most normal people, which – strangely – includes the O’Dell-Squiers writing staff, there’s a line between barely plausible and outright unbelievable. With the Bleeds Bogey – that’s what they’re calling the poltergeist – the line has been crossed. At today’s conference, the girl with the big glasses was summarily sacked for questioning whether the programme should go down that street.’
Richard wasn’t surprised by that. It suggested their quarry knew how close they were to catching up.
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br /> ‘The rest of the pack are frothing,’ continued Barbara. ‘It’s Hallowe’en come early. With his producer’s hat on, Marcus Squiers wants to retain you as technical advisor.’
‘That means they’ll make up what they want anyway but pay you to put your name in the end credits,’ said Fred.
‘My understanding is that they want to give me more than a name-check. Barbara, did Squiers mention the ghost-hunters who’re showing up on the programme?’
‘There’s a buzz about them, though the pack got secretive when the subject came up. They suddenly remembered I was in the circle.’
‘The character names have been decided,’ Richard told them. ‘I’ve seen their racks in Wardrobe. Masterman and Dr Laurinz. Roget Masterman and Dr Canberra Laurinz.’
‘Canberra!’ blurted Barbara, appalled. ‘I must say this crosses the line. I’m supposed to engage critically with the subject, not be swallowed by it.’
Richard had a pang about involving an outside party in the investigation. It did not do to get civilians turned into frogs.
‘Who’s playing you, guv?’
‘I assume someone called Peter Wyngarde has been approached,’ said Richard. ‘The supposed resemblance keeps being mentioned.’
Vanessa looked at him, thought about it, then ventured, ‘I wonder how Peter Cushing would look in a multi-coloured Nehru jacket and moon boots?’
‘It’ll be someone from provincial rep or Früt adverts,’ said Fred. ‘No one you’ve ever heard of gets on the Barstows. No offence, Ness.’
‘None taken. It’s true. The Moo is reigning star, and doesn’t like pretenders to the throne. “Victoria Plant” found that out in about two minutes.’
‘In some instances, they cast for physical likeness, not talent,’ said Richard. ‘They’ll be poring over Spotlight for lookalikes. A wig and a tash will do for me, but I imagine Barbara will be harder to match.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Professor Corri, trying not to be frightened. ‘I’m always being mistaken for some woman who wears fangs in Hammer films.’
