by Nev Fountain
He could also see Minnie standing by him, finger pointing directly into her own reflection.
Pointing at herself.
‘There I am,’ she said.
Oh God…
180 degrees wrong. 180 degrees crap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Mervyn leant against the table, clutching at the place in his midriff where his stomach used to be.
Everything started to move in slow motion, like a crash test film with Mervyn as the luckless blank-faced dummy flying through the car windscreen. Only this time the dummy just sagged limply onto a chair and waited helplessly for the inevitable impact.
Which never came.
Minnie just grinned at him.
‘More screws loose than the Styrax you fell on?’
‘Minnie I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. I honestly didn’t realise.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m so sorry…’
‘I SAID… DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!’
Her shout was loud and unexpected. A lot of hotel guests looked up from their conversations.
She swung her bag onto her shoulder, too violently. It hit the wall and exploded in a shower of lipsticks, packets of tissues, tampons and condoms. Mervyn felt guilty, embarrassed and incredibly old.
‘Here, let me…’ Mervyn dived to pick up the bits. He picked up the autograph book; he recognised it now. It was the one he’d signed yesterday.
Minnie knelt too, and whispered in his ear. ‘So what if I did kill them both? They deserved it. They crossed my mum. They hurt her.’
Mervyn went numb. ‘But… One of them was your dad…’
‘He wasn’t my dad. Mum had four husbands. I never had a dad. Certainly not him. Don’t ever tell anyone I killed them, or I’m going to have to kill you too. You’re very lucky I fancy you, Mervyn, or you’d be dead now.’ She grinned. A crooked, damaged grin.
She finished picking up her stuff, and walked off calmly, swinging from side to side, the bag slapping against her pert bottom.
Oh my God.
180 degrees wrong. 180 degrees crap.
After a good ten minutes staring into the mirrored wall at his own slackened face, Mervyn found the use of his legs again. He got up and lumbered away, too dazed to work out where he was walking to. He barely realised he was wandering back into the dealers’ room—where he was greeted by Andrew.
*
‘So to sum up, you accidentally slept with a mother and her daughter—in the one night?’
‘I thought Minnie had returned for a rematch. I’d taken some sleeping pills. I wasn’t fully compos mentis. It was an accident!’
‘An accident? I’ve heard of Freudian slips, but that’s ridiculous.’
‘You knew, didn’t you? Of course you did. You saw her hug me.’
‘Well… I suspected. To be honest, I was a bit stunned when you got hugged by Minnie this morning, but I assumed that was the effect you have on most young women.’
‘Oh my God. Oh…my… God. She’s going to kill me. What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?’
‘Don’t panic. Help is at hand. You see him over there?’ He waved at the vendor across the room, who gave them a cheery wave.
‘Yes?’
‘When they do find out, and one or other of them rips your dick off, don’t worry. He’s got catheters you can borrow.’
CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 1.00pm
EVENT: RODDY BURGESS—LEADING FROM THE FRONT
LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)
EVENT: ‘WAR OF THE VIXENS’ EPISODE SCREENING
LOCATION: The Catacombs of Herath(video lounge—room 1024)
EVENT: AUTOGRAPHS—VANITY MYCROFT, MERVYN STONE
LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)
[Cancelled] EVENT: PHOTOGRAPHS, WILLIAM SMURFETT
LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)
EVENT: BRINGING BACK ‘VIXENS: WHO TO SEND YOUR LETTERS TO—EXPERT PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
CHAPTER FORTY
Mervyn walked woodenly along the corridor; his legs moved, but he couldn’t feel them. But they seemed okay on their own for the moment, doing the right-left–right thing under him.
Calm, calm, calm.
So he’d found the murderer.
And slept with her.
And the murderer’s mum.
It could have been worse, but he wasn’t sure how.
He ended up in his room, hiding. If he stayed under the bedcovers, no one would find him.
Knock knockity-knock.
That was his door. Bugger. So much for that plan.
Knock knockity-knock.
That was a familiar knock, he thought. Oh God. It must be Vanity.
Knock knockity-knock.
Oh God. Unless… Wouldn’t it be ironic if her daughter had exactly the same knock as her…
‘Mervyn? Are you in there lover boy?’ shouted Minnie.
Oh God…
‘I hope me being a murderer won’t change our relationship at all.’
Mervyn stayed as silent as he could.
‘I thought we could have some fun. I could tie you up, and you could be at my mercy.’ She waited for an answer. Mervyn remained quiet.
‘Some other time, then. If you’re in there, Morris wants you for the writers panel. You’ve already missed one autograph session. Don’t be late. Or I’ll be very cross.’ One last knockity—and she left.
He was sitting on a time bomb. There was going to come a time when Minnie or Vanity would find out that he’d slept with both of them. And then the third murder victim at this convention would definitely be him. His only hope was to get out fast.
Something was vibrating under the covers, jiggling like a freshly caught salmon under his buttocks. For a moment he thought one of the Mycrofts had left something interesting and buzzing in his bed, but then he remembered he’d put his phone on to silent during his last panel.
‘Hello?’
A wash of sound. Low stertorous breathing, so close to the earpiece that it created a deep rhythmic whooshing noise in his ear. A blustery coastline making a dirty phone call.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Stone, it’s Stuart. Sorry to bother you.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Morris had it. He leaves his files in the office. Listen. Can you meet me? I think I’ve located some key evidence in our investigation.’
‘Stuart there’s been a change of plan. I’m not doing any more investigating.’
There was a huge pause, but not a silent one. The storm rushed into his ear again.
‘What did you say?’ Stuart asked.
‘I’m leaving very quickly. Probably now.’
‘But you’re doing the writers panel in a minute. I was looking forward to that.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important thing that’s just come up…’ His mind scrabbled for a plausible excuse. It failed. ‘Work.’
‘Work? That’s great! I’m really glad you have something to do. It’s great to see you at work.’
Mervyn didn’t know how to take that. ‘Thanks.’
‘But I do have important evidence. You might be interested. I’m going to the writers panel anyway, and then I’m going to the fancy-dress disco. See you there?’ And then he hung up.
Mervyn realised he’d made a mistake. The best way to catch a murderer was to use a sympathetic policeman, of course. Find Stuart. That’s right. Find Stuart and get him to get his policeman buddy’ to arrest Minnie. That’s a good plan.
*
He went to the writers panel, where he found Morris taking down redundant posters.
‘Hi Morris. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a young man anywhere? Called Stuart. He might be wearing a Vixens costume?’
Morris looked around at the sea of fans wearing Vixens co
stumes and just raised his eyebrows helplessly.
‘Point taken,’ said Mervyn. ‘Oh well, I’ll keep looking.’
‘Don’t forget you’ve got a writers panel in five minutes.’
‘Of course. Where is it?’
‘Right here.’ Morris pointed at the door next to them. A sign on it said ‘Writers panel’. There was already an expectant collection of fans clustering in a ragged queue, looking at him with awe. He was trapped.
He went into the empty room and sat at a long table facing the rows of chairs. No sign of Stuart.
The fans outside the door stared at him. Making sure he didn’t try to escape.
CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 2.00pm
EVENT: NICHOLAS EVERETT- LOOKING BACK
LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)
EVENT: ‘OPERATION GENOCIDE’—EPISODE SCREENING
LOCATION: The Catacombs of Herath (video lounge—room 1024)
EVENT: PHOTOGRAPHS—RODERICK BURGESS
LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)
EVENT: WRITERS PANEL—MERVYN STONE, ANDREW JAMIESON, BOB AND BARBARA BRAINTREE
LOCATION: Hyperion Bridge (room 1010)
EVENT: QUESTIONS FROM THE AUDIENCE—EXPERT PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless,Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
In the hospitality room, the stewards were packing away for another year. They were removing the laminated schedules and trying not to singe themselves on the light fittings, while a steward was folding up struts and tripods, fitting them snugly into the padded security of a silver suitcase.
Minnie was there too, calmly working away. All trace of madness had been expunged from her face. She was her usual chirpy self again.
Morris entered and patted the video camera round his neck, like a St Bernard showing off a particularly fine barrel of brandy. ‘Just filmed the dealers. They’re not very good at smiling or sounding excited to be here,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t do me a favour, would you?’ He gave the video camera to Minnie. ‘Could you have a look through the footage to find any shots of Simon and Smurf? Perhaps I can put a “murder victim” package together, get some music under it or something.’
Whether Minnie thought that was a particularly tasteful idea or not, she took the tape without a word and left to go to the office.
After she left, a ghost of a smile played around Morris’s lips for the first time at the convention.
*
At almost exactly that moment, Minnie’s mother was in her hotel room, changing for the fancy-dress disco. She was pleased at how she looked in her old costume, so she thought she could try the same trick on Mervyn again.
Mervyn hadn’t turned up at their last autograph panel. Well, he wasn’t going to slip through her clutches as easily as that. They had had an interrupted assignation that she was determined they would keep.
Something was irritating her. Unusually, it wasn’t something that was on her long list of regular irritations: fans, ex-husbands, her agent, younger actresses, magazines that didn’t contain photos of her, and magazines that did contain photos of younger actresses. She had been tugging at her bra all day, trying to settle it into a position where it wasn’t showing, but the bra wasn’t having any of it; it was intent on peeping out of her low-cut blouse.
It was most odd—not least because she had her undergarments made especially for her. There was an exotic little shop in Portobello Road with a flame-red sign and provocatively dressed dummies in the window. Within its walls, pretty little men would crawl over her with tape measures, looping them around her bosom and hips and crawling up her thighs.
Anyway, enough was enough. She took off her blouse and peeled off the offending garment. It was too small as well. Large red marks decorated her body in a way she hadn’t seen since she’d gone out with that drug-splattered pop-star with an appetite for erotic flagellation. She looked inside the bra and realised what the problem was. This was a full-cup bra. She always wore half-cups, to keep as much of her womanly flesh as visible as possible. Inside was a ragged and faded name tag, an old relic from a dozen boarding schools and numerous excursions with the Territorial Army. It bore the words ‘Minnie Mycroft’. What?
*
Minnie levered open the screen of the camera and whizzed through the footage, guests and convention attendees jerking madly as they went about their business at high speed. Then she saw Mervyn and that other writer bloke, Andrew Jamieson, chatting in the dealers’ room, their backs to the camera. She was interested. She wondered what they were talking about. She slowed the camera down.
‘So to sum up, you accidentally slept with a mother and her daughter—in the one night?’
‘I thought Minnie had returned for a rematch. I’d taken some sleeping pills. I wasn’t fully compos mentis. It was an accident!’
‘An accident? I’ve heard of Freudian slips, but that’s ridiculous.’
‘You knew, didn’t you? Of course you did. You saw her hug me.’
‘Well… I suspected. To be honest, I was a bit stunned when you got hugged by Minnie this morning, but I assumed that was the effect you have on most young women.’
‘Oh my God. Oh…my… God. She’s going to kill me. What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?’
*
Vanity couldn’t work out why she was wearing her daughter’s bra.
They didn’t share a room. They hadn’t even arrived at the convention together—the sulky little mare refused to drive there with her mother, using the predictable ‘You’ll just embarrass me mum’ whine of teenagers everywhere. She’d travelled up by train instead.
Very odd. She threw her mind back over the events of the past few days. She definitely knew she wasn’t wearing this bra during Friday’s autograph session, because she hadn’t been wearing one at all. That evening, before the fancy dress, she was positive she’d been wearing her beige half-cup instead of her black one because she didn’t want her underwear showing through her Vixens costume when she ambushed Mervyn that night.
Oh that’s right.When she ambushed Mervyn that night.
Oh yes. When she ambushed Mervyn.
That night. Oh.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘Please forgive me,’ said Mervyn.
He raised his hands.
‘But could you all come down to the front please? There’s not enough of us to spread out.’ Mervyn only asked the dozen or so people to come closer so he could make absolutely sure Stuart wasn’t one of them.
No. He hadn’t turned up yet.
Mervyn sat in the middle as de facto chairman. The happily married writing partners Bob and Barbara Braintree dominated the south end of the table. Barbara was doing some knitting, Bob held the wool. At the north end, Andrew Jamieson had draped himself over a chair, arm propped up on the table, hand splayed in mid air, fingers curling around an imaginary cigarette.
The shape of these sessions would follow a pretty set pattern; someone would ask ‘Where do you get your ideas?’, that had them scratching their heads for five minutes (Andrew would say—only half-jokingly—that he stole his), and then some bright spark would ask Mervyn what a script editor actually did.
‘Hmm… I’ve heard a lot of script editors use all sorts of analogies to describe the job; sheep-dogs rounding up sheep, head chefs running a busy kitchen, conductors of an orchestra… I usually see myself as the soldier in the regiment who throws himself on the live hand grenade when it gets lobbed into his trench—particularly when I was lobbed scripts from this bloke here on my right.’
Mervyn would then try to explain what he did, and as what he did usually involved clearing up Andrew’s scripts, he usually used examples involving Andrew. The whole session would usually end with Mervyn and Andrew having a good-natured argument in front of a handful of attendees about who did what to whom.
‘Andrew’s scripts were always on the
sketchy side. It was a case of “Here’s a title, fill in the blanks later.”’
‘You’re exaggerating, Merv.’
‘Last time we went for a curry, he handed me his menu. I thought it was the second draft of “Prison Planet”.’
There was a giggle around the room, which Andrew fed by pulling a mock distressed face. ‘You wound me Mervyn, you really do.’
‘I don’t think you realised what you put me through. I used to wake-up in cold sweats. I must be the only person ever to have flashbacks about things that hadn’t happened yet.’
‘Don’t believe you.’
‘Five words, Andrew: “Demons of the Outer Darkness”.’
‘“Demons of the Outer Darkness” didn’t need any work.’
‘No, you’re right. “Demons of the Outer Darkness” didn’t need any work. Those five words on the cover I didn’t have to change at all. It was the 6000 words on all the other pages that needed replacing. Namely because half the characters you’d written for had all died in the previous season.’
‘Well I didn’t have to watch the bloody thing as well, did I? That was your job.’
Mervyn addressed the tiny audience. ‘Lady and gentleman, to sum up, the most important part of a script editor’s job is to expect the unexpected.’
‘There he is! That’s the bastard!’ Vanity was standing in the back of the room, in full Vixens from the Void costume, holding a quivering finger in their direction. ‘That’s the man who ravished my daughter! Calls himself a man of letters? Mad old lecher more like! Old pervert! And I have proof!’ She was waving a bra in her other hand. The image of a vengeful Arkadia come to life, and wielding what appeared to be some kind of futuristic slingshot startled the fans.
Mervyn panicked and dived for cover underneath the table, wearing the edge of the tablecloth around his head like a burqa. Even though he was petrified with fear; he still noticed that at exactly the same moment he dived for cover, the other male members of the writers panel also hid under the table.
Arkadia charged into the room, knocking fans aside and upended the table, forcing Mervyn and the other men to scramble to their feet. He half ran, half crawled as he moved to the door. Vanity came after him, screaming obscenities. Burly stewards tried to rugby tackle her, but they were knocked aside too. Mervyn was near the door, finally, and dimly aware of the chaos exploding around him. He could hear Barbara Braintree shouting and screaming at Bob Braintree; the cosiest writing partnership in television was coming to an end behind him.
