Geek Tragedy

by Nev Fountain

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Right, and to whom should I put it—?’

  ‘Just put your name.’

  ‘Just the name. Right.’ Another one for eBay, then.

  He dutifully signed his name over a photo of a smiling man in a sparkly uniform.

  The fan peered at the autograph. ‘What does that say?’ he demanded.

  ‘Um… “With best wishes, Mervyn Stone.”’

  The fan peered again. ‘You’re not Major Karn played by Roderick Burgess,’ he said, the flat voice not wavering by a semitone.

  ‘No, no I’m not,’ said Mervyn. ‘I have to admit it, I’m not. You’ve caught me fair and square. Devilishly sneaky trick of yours to blow my cover, getting me to sign my name like that.’

  Enough with the sarcasm, Mervyn, he told himself. These people have paid a lot of money to be here, and they’re paying your fee. Have some patience, for God’s sake.

  The man blinked several times, as though he was trying to reboot his brain. ‘That’s Major Karn played by Roderick Burgess. I wanted Roderick Burgess’s autograph on Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think it’s a magic marker. I don’t think it’ll rub off.’

  He blinked again. ‘You’ve signed your name on Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Someone had approached them. It was one of the stewards who patrolled these conventions. With bright mauve sweatshirt and identity pass round her neck, she looked like a prim-yet-sexy gym mistress. ‘The autographs have now finished. We have to clear the hall.’

  ‘He signed his name on Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. She took the cardboard collage, inspecting the offending scribble with great solicitude. Then, like a nurse removing a chest bandage, she suddenly ripped out Roddy’s photo and gave his collection back to him. ‘There. You can put another photo in your little collection and get Mr Burgess to sign that one instead, can’t you?’

  The man walked away in a daze where he was joined by other fans. Mervyn could just hear a faint disbelieving monotone saying ‘She tore out Roderick Burgess’s photo.’

  This steward was young, pretty and had just rescued him from a large annoying fan. He was definitely in love. What was the name on her tag? She wasn’t standing near enough, and, like Simon’s tag, it was printed in that unreadable squared-off futuristic font. Bugger.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, staring at her tag like a cross-eyed buzzard. He made out the name ‘Minnie Moncreif’ or ‘Montrose’. Or something like that.

  ‘That’s all right. It’s my job to keep the scary ones at a safe distance.’

  ‘Is it? Thank God. You couldn’t escort me full-time, could you?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  She tilted her smooth innocent face at him, and then she grinned, the dirtiest grin he’d ever seen on any woman’s face. Even Vanity’s.

  And then she was gone.

  What the…?

  He hurried out of the autograph room, head cocked like a spaniel, eyes darting from right to left, looking for her. Was she at the end of the corridor by the lifts? He broke into a determined lollop, eyes craning to see a splash of curly auburn hair. Unfortunately, someone else happened to be heading swiftly down an intersecting corridor, and as Mervyn wasn’t looking where he was going, the collision was inevitable.

  ‘My portfolio!’ wailed Simon, as photos, papers and postcards scattered down the corridor, falling like large multi-coloured snowflakes.

  ‘Oh dear. I’m really sorry…’ He went to pick up a few, but Simon screamed as he pulled on white cotton gloves. ‘Don’t touch the deceased ones! A lot of these artistes have been unavailable for decades! They are priceless!’ Simon’s face folded into an unpleasant scowl, which suited him. It was as if, with no others around, he no longer had to waste energy on his artificial bonhomie.

  Obligingly, Mervyn picked up an autograph slip which had become separated from the photo, but Simon snatched it off him. ‘I told you…’

  ‘I know this actor! This is Samuel Johns. He’s not dead!’ Mervyn protested.

  Simon glared at him, smoothing it. ‘He happens to be very, very ill,’ he snarled. ‘Who knows, when you snuff it, your signature might be worth something…’ He huffed off, holding his piles of photos like a newborn baby. ‘But I doubt it, Mervyn. I doubt it,’ he called back.

  Mervyn resumed his trot along the corridor, but with little enthusiasm. She was long gone. Oh well, he thought. Might as well head back to my room.

  He pressed the button to open the lift, only to find her waiting inside for him. One hand on the ‘hold’ button, the other placed provocatively on her hip.

  ‘Are you stalking me?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah…well. No…’

  She smiled wickedly. ‘Would you like to?’

  *

  Mervyn’s hands were trembling so much he could barely insert his key-card into the door slot. Fortunately, that passed. He had no more problems with slots after that.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The steward scooped up her ferocious bosom in a sturdy bra and shrugged on her sweatshirt.

  ‘You off?’ said Mervyn, watching her from his bed. He was self-consciously hiding the more wobbly and careworn bits of his body under the duvet. So basically, it was tucked tight up under his chin.

  He’d been much less self-conscious half an hour earlier. He’d been hopping round the hotel room, doing the dance known as the ‘Man Desperate for a Shag Shuffle’. This involved trying to take shoes and socks off with jeans puddled around the ankles while hurling a shirt above the head, trying to shake it free from the wrists.

  ‘Got to go. Soz. Got to get ready for your panel. The whole convention will turn out for it. If I’m not there with the other stewards to sort the queues out, Simon’s gonna get killed in the stampede.’

  ‘Now that’s something I’d pay forty quid to see.’

  She bounded off the bed. Her arms were surprisingly large, threaded with muscles. Her shoulders were bigger than Mervyn’s. Mervyn was under no illusion that she led a very active lifestyle; the sides of his stomach ached from the workout.

  She bent over the hotel mirror brushing her hair, her buttocks raised and pointed in his direction. ‘You’d have to buy a ticket and wait in line.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mervyn tried to spin the conversation out. Anything to keep that impressive bottom hovering in his vicinity. It was like two pink helium balloons bobbing across his eyeline, so smooth and shiny he swore he could see the hotel windows reflected in them.

  ‘Is he not popular then… Minnie?’ He used the name tentatively. In the excitement of the last half-hour, he’d forgotten to check her tag properly.

  But he’d obviously read it right, because she turned and grinned at him. ‘Yeah, you might say that. All us stewards, we all muck in for a laugh, really. Have a boogie at the disco, meet the stars. He takes it far too seriously, like a business. He’s always oiling after the big names, but he treats them like kids, really.’ She paused, thinking. ‘No. Not like kids. More like things. He talks about you lot like he does all those ray guns and robots and props he owns. “Get Jamieson out of the bar and put him where he’s supposed to be!” he says, and “I want my prize collection on stage in five minutes,” when he’s talking about the Vixen actresses, would you believe.’ Her face darkened. ‘And then there’s what else he’s done. He’s not done a nice… Well, let’s just say he’s not popular. Patronising tosser. We call him Slime-on Josh. We got loads of nicknames for the stars. They aren’t all flattering so I’d better not tell.’

  ‘I shudder to think. Are you lot thinking up a nickname for me?’

  ‘What’s to say you haven’t got a nickname already?’

  ‘No I haven’t!’ He threw a pillow at her.

  ‘You have too!’ It was chucked back with a giggle. Minnie leapt on the bed, lying on top of him, nose-to-nose, with only the duvet separating them. Mervyn felt
like a teenager, larking around with his new girlfriend in her parents’ bed, his head buzzing with excitement and danger.

  ‘You’re teasing me.’

  ‘It’s true. You’ve got a nickname.’

  ‘How can I have? I haven’t done a convention in seven years.’

  She smiled her dirty smile. ‘What can I say? You’ve got a reputation that don’t die easily. Let’s just say you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself among the girl stewards. They say you always used to go on patrol, case them all for fresh talent. They call you “the Stone Ranger”.’

  ‘The what?’

  She kissed his nose. ‘You heard!’

  ‘What do you mean “case for talent”? I do not “case for talent”.’

  ‘Oh really? And you weren’t staring at my boobs all the while I was dealing with that fat bloke and his autographs?’

  ‘But I was only—’ He was about to protest that he’d only been trying to read her name tag, but his survival instinct took over. Probably not the best time to bring that up. Besides, if he hadn’t been trying to focus on her name, he’d most likely have been staring at her breasts. It was his good fortune he’d accidentally given her the right impression.

  ‘Anyway. I’m profoundly grateful to you.’

  ‘You should be, mate.’

  ‘No, not about what we just did! Though of course, that was nice.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘I’ll take great.’

  ‘I meant I was profoundly grateful about you rescuing me from that mad fan.’

  ‘No worries. All part of the job.’

  ‘They can get a bit much, the ones with their anal addiction to crossing the stars off their little lists.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  She leapt off the bed and dived for her jeans, slipping them on. Then she dashed to the door, turned and said, ‘Oh, before I go, could you do something for me?’

  ‘Again? I’m an old man.’

  ‘Not that! Though I’ll be back for more, don’t you worry,’ she chucked a small black leather book on the bed. ‘Could you sign the postcard on page 23 and get the book back to me after the panel? I’d be really grateful.’

  And she was gone.

  Mervyn picked up the book. It was an autograph book, sheets of plastic envelopes filled with photos and postcards; most were signed, in very fulsome ways, ‘To Minnie.’

  All the postcards and photos were of Vixens celebrities. All men.

  Mervyn’s was about the only one left unsigned.

  I’ll be back for more. Don’t you worry.

  CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT ONE / 1.00pm

  EVENT: BEHIND-THE-SCENES PANEL, NICHOLAS EVERETT, MERVYN STONE, BERNARD VINER

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

  EVENT: ‘ASSASSINS OF DESTINY’ PART TWO, EPISODE SCREENING

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

  EVENT: AUTOGRAPH PANEL, JOSEPH McANDREW, TIM WARNE, BRYCE CAMPION, RICK ARMORY

  LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)

  EVENT: PHOTOS—VANITY MYCROFT

  LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)

  EVENT: WRITING VIXENS FICTION PROFESSIONAL WRITERS’ PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew

  LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As Mervyn entered the ballroom for his behind-the-scenes panel, he was plunged into darkness.

  He could dimly see about 200 people on chairs, their faces shining with the reflected light from a projection screen. Booming from the speakers was a distorted conversation. On the screen, her features blown up to monstrous proportions, was Vanity. Her hair was lacquered into a golden mane that crested a good half-foot above her head; cheeks and eyelids plastered with a shade of shocking pink that had died out nowadays—thankfully—along with pirate shirts, suede pixie boots and T-shirts instructing the world in general to ‘RELAX’.

  ‘How could you do this to us. How could you do this me?’ she over-enunciated, moist lips quivering. The camera cut to the room she was in; a cross between a Russian palace (curtains and props courtesy of a BBC production of War and Peace) and an ultra-modern control centre (set borrowed from Blake’s 7). There was a large screen, crudely pasted on the wall with BBC special effects.

  ‘Forgive me sister. I have this weakness for wanting to be on the winning side.’

  On the screen was the evil Medula. She was wearing a jet-black wig in a severe Cleopatra style. Her costume and make-up were all in blacks and purples. One might as well have CEEFAX subtitles flash up the word ‘villainess’.

  ‘But they’ll destroy the whole Vixen empire!’ wailed Vanity as, yet again, her face filled the wall of the ballroom.

  Medula folded her arms in triumph. ‘The Day of the Vixen is over. The Day of the Styrax is just beginning!’

  The credits rolled. There was spontaneous applause and whooping from the murky figures in the chairs.

  ‘Aren’t you dead yet?’ hissed a voice to Mervyn’s left. ‘I could have sworn I’d read your obituary in The Independent at least four times.’

  ‘Now you’re just being silly Nicholas. There’s no way I’d be seen dead in The Independent. You know and I know if I go, it’ll be nine inches in the The Telegraph or nothing.’

  ‘Nine inches? You’d have to mow down a bus queue for that, petal.’

  Squinting in the semi-darkness, Mervyn could see a tanned, well-fed face under a flamboyantly dyed bouffant.

  ‘Dodgy old rubbish, isn’t it old love?’ The ex-Producer of Vixens from the Void pointed at the screen, grinned, and immaculately capped teeth glowed out of a well-trimmed beard. ‘But not bad for a budget of fifty quid and a toffee apple per show.’

  ‘Let me tell you, Nicholas, it’s got its own primitive charm. I’ve just seen it with very loud state-of-the-art effects and it’s not pretty.’

  Mervyn liked Nicholas, and thoroughly enjoyed the time they’d worked together on Vixens. It was a rare thing for script editor and producer to get on so well, but Nicholas wasn’t one of those TV types who thought that being ostentatiously gay gave him the automatic right to throw his toys out of his pram and sulk at the production teams. Nicholas’s overt campery was the gloss on a deeply sensitive and shy man who listened very carefully to people who knew their jobs. Mervyn was deeply touched that Nicholas counted him among those few people.

  ‘How’s business in the touring game?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh positively booming, dear heart. This summer, I’ve shunted three arty exhibitions, two tribute bands and a rather spectacular pyrotechnic light show around the country. I’ve also had the dubious honour of being nursemaid to a particularly innovative—read dodgy—production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m pleased to have the opportunity to shake the crumbs off my favourite old double entendre and say that the whole south coast of England has seen my experimental Bottom.’

  Mervyn’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He noticed Bernard Viner, the third member of their panel, sitting sullenly on a chair near the stage. He didn’t look very happy.

  Oh dear, thought Mervyn. I really shouldn’t have sent that fan to show him his CGI stuff.

  *

  The behind-the-scenes panel was to follow the clips. While the screens showed more highlights from Vixens from the Void, four large comfortable chairs were placed in a semi-circle on stage. After five minutes, the screens went blank. On cue, the crowd stopped milling and found a place to sit.

  Minnie was there by the sound desk, arms folded. She caught his eye and blew him a kiss. Mervyn gave her a grin. Then he noticed his new fan, Stuart, sitting in the front row. Mervyn only glanced across to the audience for a second, but Stuart was waiting to catch his eye. The fan assumed the grin was for him, grinned back and gave a fluttery little wave like an adoring girlfriend, much to Mervyn’s embarrassment.

  Simon Josh came on stage, clearly savo
uring his moment in the spotlight. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are so privileged to have with us three people who were, literally, the life blood and soul of Vixens from the Void. Let me invite on to the stage, Script editor Mervyn Stone, Producer Nicholas Everett, and last, but by no means least…’

  Waiting in the darkness, Mervyn could have sworn that someone gave a bitter chuckle. It sounded like Bernard.

  ‘…Special effects wizard Bernard Viner!’

  They mounted the stage to thunderous applause.

  *

  ‘So, Mervyn, what made you come up with the idea of the Styrax? What made you come up with a race of supercars who rebel and take over their planet?’

  ‘What made me? Our audience figures made me.’

  There was a well-rehearsed ripple of laughter as Mervyn gave his equally well-rehearsed opening line, of which the attached anecdote had become part of fan folklore since it started popping up on convention videos. Mervyn gave a ‘but seriously though’ cough and continued. ‘Well… I had been scratching my head all day thinking about what we could possibly do to open series two with a bang, and Nicholas thought it would be a great idea to have an original and distinctive new monster to kick things off.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Nicholas, deadpan. ‘Brilliant idea of mine… To have an original and distinctive monster…’

  ‘…And of course he left me with the task of coming up with said original and distinctive monster…’

  Nicholas gave a theatrical sigh and pulled an expression of world-weariness.

  ‘Well it was my idea, Merv… You can’t expect me to do everything…’

  More titters from the darkness.

  ‘Well I was stumped, wasn’t I, Nicholas?’

  Nicholas dipped in with practised ease.

  ‘Oh yes, he was indeed. He was pacing up and down in the production office just above TC8 with a face like thunder, shouting “I must have a monster! I must have a monster!” I popped my head round the door, and said “Merve, love, if you’ll just let me finish this scene, I’ll come out there and shout with you.”’