by Kim Newman
Harry couldn’t have got back to bed and fallen into a deep sleep in twenty seconds.
You also couldn’t get a wrong number on a phone with a redial facility.
The phone was picked up at the other end.
‘Hello,’ said a female voice, young and hard, ‘who’s this then?’
‘Harry,’ Greg said. ‘Where’s Harry?’
‘’E’s got a bit of a problem, mate,’ the girl said. ‘But we’ll see to ’im.’
Greg was feeling very bad about this. The girl on the phone didn’t sound like a concerned neighbour. ‘Is Harry ill?’
A pause. Greg imagined silent laughter. There was music in the background. Not Harry Lipman music but tinny Metal, distorted by a cheap boombox and the telephone. Suddenly, Greg was down from his high, the good feeling and the alcohol washed out of his system.
‘Hello?’
‘Still here,’ the girl said.
‘Is Harry ill?’
‘Well, I’ll put it this way,’ she said, ‘we’ve sent for the doctor.’
Evidence has come to light linking Derek Leech, the man at the top of the pyramid, with a linked chain of dubious right-wing organisations here and abroad. A source inside the Leech organisation, currently gearing up to launch a new national evening paper, revealed to our reporter, DUNCAN EYLES, that while other press barons diversify into the electronic media and publishing, Derek Leech has his eye on a more direct manner of influencing the shape of the nation.
‘Derek has been underwriting the election campaigns of parliamentary candidates in the last few by-elections,’ the source told us. ‘They mostly lost their deposits. Patrick Massinghame, the Britain First chairman who later rejoined the Tories, was one. The idea was not to take a seat but to use the campaigns to disseminate propaganda. The Comet has always been antiimmigration, pro-law-and-order, anti-anything-socialist, pro-hanging-and-flogging, pro-military spending, pro-political-censorship. But the campaigns were able to be rabidly so.’
Leech, who has regularly dismissed similar allegations as ‘lunatic conspiracy theories’, refused to comment on documents leaked to us which give facts and figures. In addition to funding Patrick Massinghame and others of his political stripe, Leech has contributed heavily to such bizarre causes as the White Freedom Crusade, which channels funds from British and American big business into South Africa, the English Liberation Front, who claim that immigrants from the Indian Sub-Continent and the Caribbean constitute ‘an army of occupation’ and should be driven out through armed struggle, the Revive Capital Punishment lobby, and even Caucasian supremacist thrash metal band Whitewash, whose single ‘Blood, Iron and St George’ was banned by the BBC and commercial radio stations but still managed to reach Number 5 in the independent charts.
Even more disturbing in the light of these allegations, is the paramilitary nature of the security force Leech is employing to guard the pyramid that is at the heart of his empire. Recruiting directly from right-wing youth gangs, often through advertisements placed in illiterate but suspiciously well produced and printed fanzines distributed at football matches, the Leech organisation has been assembling what can only be described as an army of yobs to break the still-continuing print union pickets in docklands. Our source informs us that the pyramid contains a well-stocked armoury, as if the proprietor of the Comet and the forthcoming Argus were expecting a siege. Rumour has it that Leech has even invested in a custom-made Rolls Royce featuring such unusual extras as bullet-proof bodywork, James Bond-style concealed rocket launchers, a teargas cannon and bonnet-mounted stilettos.
Derek Leech can afford all the toys he wants. But perhaps it’s about time we started to get worried about the games he wants to play...
Searchlight, August 1991
The minicab driver wouldn’t take him onto the estate no matter what he offered to pay and left him stranded him at the kerb. At night, the place was even less inviting than by day. There were wire-mesh protected lights embedded in concrete walls every so often, but skilled vandals had got through to them. Greg knew that dashing into the dark maze would do no good, and forced himself to study the battered, graffiti-covered map of the estate that stood by the road. He found Harry’s house on the map easily. By it, someone had drawn a stickman hanging from a gallows. It was impossible to read a real resemblance into the infants’ scrawl of a face, but Greg knew it was supposed to represent Harry.
He walked towards the house, so concerned for Harry Lipman that he forgot to be scared for himself. That was a mistake.
They came from an underpass and surrounded him. He got an impression of Union Jack T-shirts and shaven heads. Studded leather straps wrapped around knuckles. They only seemed to hit him four or five times, but it was enough.
He turned his head with the first blow and felt his nose flatten into his cheek. Blood was seeping out of his instantly swollen nostrils and he was cut inside his mouth. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the pain. They stood back, and watched him yelp blood onto his chest. He was still wearing his convention tag.
Then one of them came in close, breathed foully in his face, and put a knee into his groin. He sagged, crying out, and felt his knees going. They kicked his legs, and he was on the ground. His ribs hurt.
‘Come on, P,’ one of them said, ‘’e’s ’ad ’is. Let’s scarper.’
‘Nahh,’ said a girl - the one he had talked to on the telephone? - as she stepped forwards, ‘es not properly done yet.’
Greg pressed his nostrils together to stanch the blood and realised his nose wasn’t broken. There was a lump rising on his cheek, though. He looked into the girl’s face.
She was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and there was blonde fur on her skull. Her head was lumpy and the skinhead cut made her child’s face seem small, as if painted on an easter egg. He had seen her the last time he was here. She wore Britannia earrings, and had a rare right-way-round swastika tattooed in blue on her temple.
‘Come on...’
P smiled at him and licked her lips like a cat. ‘Do you need telling any more, Mr Artist?’
The others were bunched behind her. She was small and wiry, but they were like hulks in the shadows.
‘Do you get the picture?’
Greg nodded. Anything, just so long as they let him alone. He had to get to Harry.
‘Good. Draw well, ’cause we’ll be watching over you.’
Lights came on in a house opposite and he got a clearer look at their faces. Apart from P, they weren’t kids. They were in the full skinhead gear, but on them it looked like a disguise. There were muffled voices from the house, and the lights went off again.
‘Kick ’im, Penelope,’ said someone.
P smiled again. ‘Nahh, Bazzo. ’E knows what’s what, now. We don’t want to hurt ’im. ’E’s important. Ain’t ya, Mr Artist?’
Greg was standing up again. There was nothing broken inside his head, but he was still jarred. His teeth hurt and he spat out a mouthful of blood.
‘Dirty beast.’
His vision was wobbling. P was double-exposed, a bubble fringe shimmering around her outline.
‘Goodnight,’ said P. ‘Be good.’
Then they were gone, leaving only shadows behind them. Greg ran across the walkway, vinegar-stained pages of the Comet swirling about his ankles. Harry’s front door was hanging open, the chain broken, and the hallway was lit up.
Greg found him in his kitchen, lying on the floor, his word processor slowly pouring a long manuscript onto him. The machine rasped as it printed out.
He helped Harry sit up, and got him a teacup of water from the tap. They hadn’t hurt him too badly, although there was a bruise on his forehead. Harry was badly shaken. Greg had never seen him without his teeth in and he was drooling like a baby, unconsciously wiping his mouth on his cardigan sleeve. He was trying to talk but couldn’t get the words out.
The phone was ripped out of the wall. The printer was scratching Greg’s nerves. He sat at the desk and tried to wor
k out how to shut it off without losing anything. He wasn’t familiar with this model.
Then he looked at the continuous paper. It was printing out a draft of the first month of new Dr Shade scripts. Greg couldn’t help but read what was coming out of the machine.
It wasn’t what he had been working on. It wasn’t even in script form. But Harry had written it and he would be expected to draw it.
Unable to control his shaking, Greg read on.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Harry. ‘It was Him. They brought Him here. He was here before Donald started writing Him. He’ll always be here.’
Greg turned to look at the old man. Harry was standing over him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Greg shook his head and Harry sadly nodded.
‘It’s true. We’ve always known, really.’
Beyond Harry was his hallway. Beyond that, the open door allowed Greg to see into the night. The shadowman was out there, laughing...
...the laughter faded into the noise of the printer.
Greg read on.
He thought for a moment before selecting the face he would wear tonight. The Chambers identity was wearing thin, limiting him too much. These were troubled times and stricter methods were required. He considered all the people he had been, listed the names, paged through their faces.
Sitting behind the desk at the tip of the glass and steel pyramid, he felt the thrill of power. Out there in the night cowered the crack dealers and the anarchists, the blacks and the yellows, the traitors and the slackers. Tonight they would know he was back.
The press baron was a useful face. It had helped him gain a purchase on these new times, given him a perspective on the sorry state of the nation.
He thought of the true patriots who had been rejected. Oswald Mosley, Unity Mitford, William Joyce, Donald Moncrieff. And the false creatures who had succeeded them. This time, things would be different. There would be no bowing to foreign interests.
He fastened his cloak at his throat, and peeled off the latest mask. Smiling at the thin-lipped reflection in the dark mirror of the glass, he pulled on the goggles.
The private lift was ready to take him to the Shadowshark. He holstered his trusty airgun.
Plunging towards his destiny, he exulted in the thrill of the chase. He was back.
Accept no pale imitations. Avoid the lesser men, the men of wavering resolves, of dangerous weaknesses.
He was the original.
REX CASH, The Return of Dr Shade (1991)
Greg was at his easel, drawing. There was nothing else he could do. No matter how much he hated the commission, he had to splash the black ink, had to fill out the sketches. It was all he had left of himself. In the panel, Dr Shade was breaking up a meeting of the conspirators. African communists were infiltrating London, foully plotting to sabotage British business by blowing up the Stock Exchange. But the doctor would stop them. Greg filled in the thick lips of Papa Dominick, the voodoo commissar, and tried to get the fear in the villain’s eyes as the shadowman raised his airgun.
‘Did you hear,’ P said, ‘they’re giving me a chance to write for the Argus. The Stamp of Truth, they’ll call my column. I can write about music or politics or fashion or anything. I’ll be a proper little girl reporter.’
Crosbie told him Derek Leech was delighted at the way the strip was going. Dr Shade was really taking off. There was Dr Shade graffiti all over town, and he had started seeing youths with Dr Shade goggles tattooed around their eyes. A comics reviewer who had acclaimed Fat Chance as a masterpiece described the strip as ‘racist drivel’. He hadn’t been invited to any conventions recently, and a lot of his old friends would cross the street to avoid him. Greg’s telephone rang rarely, now. It was always Crosbie. To his surprise, Tamara had cut herself out of the 10 per cent after the first week of the Argus and told him to find other representation. He never heard from Harry, just received the scripts by special messenger. Greg could imagine the writer disconsolately tapping out stories in Donald Moncrieff’s style at his Amstrad. He knew exactly how the other man felt.
He had the radio on. The riots were still flaring up. The police were concerned by a rash of airgun killings but didn’t seem to be doing much about them. It appeared that the victims were mainly rabble-rousing ringleaders, although not a few West Indian and Asian community figures had been killed or wounded. Kenneth Hood, a popular vicar, had tried to calm down the rioters and been shot in the head. He wasn’t expected to live and two policemen plus seven ‘rioters’ had died in the violent outburst that followed the attempt on his life. Greg imagined the shadowman on the rooftops, taking aim, hat pulled low, cloak streaming like demon wings.
Greg drew the Shadowshark, sliding through the city night, hurling aside the petrol-bomb-throwing minions of Papa Dominick. ‘The sun has shone for too long on the open schemes of the traitors,’ Harry had written, ‘but night must fall... and with the night comes Shade.’
Early on, Greg had tried to leave the city but they were waiting for him at the station. The girl called P and some of the others. They had escorted him home. They called themselves Shadeheads now, and wore hats and cloaks like the doctor, tattered black over torn T-shirts, drainpipe jeans and steel-toed Doc Martens.
P was with him most of the time now. At first, she had just been in the corner of his vision, watching over him. Finally, he’d given in and called her over. Now, she was in the flat, making her calls to the doctor, preparing his meals, warming his single bed. They’d pushed him enough and now he had to be reassured, cajoled. He worked better that way.
Derek Leech was on the radio now, defending the record of his security staff during the riots. He had pitched in to help the police, using his news helicopters to direct the action and sending his people into the fighting like troops. The police were obviously not happy, but public opinion was forcing them to accept the tycoon’s assistance. Leech made a remark about ‘the spirit of Dr Shade’ and Greg’s hand jumped, squirting ink across the paper.
‘Careful, careful,’ said P, dipping in with a tissue and delicately wiping away the blot, saving the artwork. Her hair was growing out. She’d never be a Comet Knock-Out but she was turning into a surprisingly housewifely, almost maternal, girl. In the end, Shadeheads believed a woman’s place was with her legs spread and her hands in dishwater.
In the final panel, Dr Shade was standing over his vanquished enemies, holding up his fist in a defiant salute. White fire was reflected in his goggles.
The news was over, and the new Crüsaders single came on. ‘There’ll Always Be an England.’ It was climbing the charts.
Greg looked out of the window. He imagined fires on the horizon.
He took a finer pen and bent to do some detail work. He wished he had held out longer. He wished he’d taken more than one beating. Sometimes, he told himself he was doing it for Harry, to protect the old man. But that was bullshit. They hadn’t been Reggie Barton and Hank Hemingway. Imaginative torture hadn’t been necessary and they hadn’t sworn never to give in, never to break down, never to knuckle under. A few plain old thumps and the promise of a few more had been enough. Plus more money a month than either of them had earned in any given three years of their career.
Next week, the doctor would execute Papa Dominick. Then, he would do something about the strikers, the scroungers, the slackers, the scum...
A shadow fell over the easel, cloak spreading around it. Greg turned to look up at the goggled face of his true master.
Dr Shade was pleased with him.
GOING TO SERIES
MEMO
From: Tiny Chiselhurst, producer/creator
To: April Treece, junior researcher
Re: Untiled Docusoap/Gameshow Pilot
Here’s the final draft of the flyer. Every word approved by Dr Wendel and Miss Lark as calculated to reach the cross-section of personality types we need.
EVERYDAY MEGASTARS WANTED
Is this you? 18-45, sexy, extrovert, killer body, unconventional, tagged ‘difficul
t’ by lesser mortals, ambitious, unattached, competitive, ‘bonkers’, up for anything?
Apply: Mythwrhn Productions
Box 101, Leech Pyramid Plaza, London Docklands.
As a classified ad, this is to go into the following periodicals: Big Bazookas, the Sunday Comet, the Nazi Atrocities part-work, Young Offender, Pop Hitz and Shy Girl Monthly. As a flyer, it is to be distributed via inner-city clubs, comic shops, student union buildings, social security offices and police stations. We agree that we should target especially the waiting rooms of probation officers and court-approved psycho-therapists, the business places of drugs and weapons dealers, abortion and VD clinics, all-night casualty wards, Young Conservative meetings, and pubs that cater to the motorcycle, rugby football, slag-on-the-pull and stockbroking communities. Word from the top of the Pyramid is that Cloud 9 (Derek Leech!) is really hyped on this project, so let’s get things moving.
[NB: this is for sending to the applicants only, and should under no circumstances be confused with the real series proposal, which is available on an eyes only need-to-know basis to security-cleared insiders at mythwrhn and cloud 9 - Tiny]
SERIES PROPOSAL
This seven-part (initial run) series combines three of the most popular (and, let’s face it, economical) TV formats of the last ten years: fly-on-the-wall docusoap, slags-on-holiday mock doc and sci-fi/adventure gameshow. A group of charismatic, sexy young chicks and chaps, strangers to each other, are brought together in a luxurious, Bond-style environment (country estate, mountaintop hunting lodge, beach house) and have to spend a week together. Cut off from civilisation, the contestants (subjects, stars?) are in contact with a host - we think we can get US smartmouth obonxio-comic Barry Gatlin, but other options are Ruby Wax or someone off Star Trek - who communicates via video-link each evening and sets tasks and competitions, which range from puzzle-solving exercises through treasure hunting on the grounds of the luxury retreat and harmless combat games to how-low-can-you-go? gross-out or endurance dares. Meanwhile, the stars are on camera day and night; we trust that days of strenuous competition will be followed by evenings of unwinding in wild, entertaining and provocative manners. Over the course of the week, we will see how each contestant scores, in every imaginable way.
