Cursed Among Sequels (The Mervyn Stone Mysteries, #3)

by Nev Fountain

  ‘I hope you gave yourself a bonus.’

  ‘Oh definitely. As I did it as freelance, the copyright stayed with me—and the royalties. Product Lazarus have already contacted me and asked me if they could use them for the new show.’

  ‘Then that’s the reason. They need your monsters.’

  ‘But they’ve already got permission from me. I told them they could use the Styrax on the strict condition that they give me some money. I’m very precious like that.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked disappointed. ‘Well, let me know when you find out why you’re here. Maybe we’ll celebrate with a drink in town.’

  She was coming on to him.

  Definitely.

  She finished her breakfast and packed it away in her cold bag for next morning.

  ‘Right. I’m off to see mum. Maybe this time she won’t keep calling me Bernard.’

  ‘I’ve finished too. I’ll go up with you.’ He hadn’t finished at all, but he wanted to be with her for a few more precious seconds. He realised he was developing a crush.

  ‘Great,’ she said.

  They walked through the pub, past the drunk and his dog, and out into the car park, where Maggie unlocked her dented Volvo. ‘So what are these monsters of yours like?’ she asked. ‘Are they Orcs or Klingons?’

  ‘Neither. The Styrax are…well, they’re robots. They were a kind of future supercar that became so powerful that they subjugated their drivers and took over. They killed every pedestrian they could find and tried to take over the galaxy. It was a dire warning to us all not to rely on the motor car.’

  ‘Oo, very prescient. I can see why they want to use them.’

  She climbed into her Volvo and pulled out, leaving Mervyn standing forlornly at the door. She noticed his bereft expression, stopped, and opened her window.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Mervyn looked embarrassed. ‘Um. Could you give me a lift into Falmouth? I need to buy more underpants.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  This is what Britain is like, thought Mervyn. It’s like a tatty old painting, where they can only afford to restore the frame.

  That’s what he thought the last time he came to Cornwall, and it occurred to him again now. Whenever he travelled to the edges of the country, Mervyn enjoyed watching the faded grimy greys and browns disappear, giving way to vivid colours—deep blues and harsh whites and greens so bright they made his eyes water.

  The day had started with a drive along the coast in Maggie’s car. She kept up an energetic prattle about her fading mother, Mavis Rollins (they share the same surname, thought Mervyn furtively, storing the information away for future use. That means she’s either unmarried, or very attached to her maiden name. Unlikely, with a name like Rollins), and how she had worked in the same shop for 40 years and never thought of travelling east of Bristol.

  Maggie was prepared to drive Mervyn into the centre of town first, but when the sign ‘Millpond Retirement Cottages’ flashed up on the side of the road, he insisted she pull in to the car park and let him walk the rest of the way. He watched her go in with a cheery wave, and then set off for the town.

  It was a fresh, face-stingingly cold day in Falmouth. Mervyn was swamped by different sounds and smells. He certainly wasn’t in London any more—that much was certain. Instead of a background wail of police cars, there were seagulls shrieking in the distance. Cars trundled along the high street like golf carts, nudging gently through pedestrians who wandered randomly off the pavements. He could imagine what would happen if flocks of pedestrians wandered into the road in his neck of the woods. It would look like his breakfast.

  He couldn’t get used to the fact that Cornish people looked each other in the eye when they passed in the street. For the first hour, he was constantly looking at his reflection in shop windows, checking he hadn’t left a bit of home-sourced sausage on his face.

  Even though change was as good as a rest, Mervyn was reassured by the names of the shops, which were omnipresent in the UK. Thank heavens for the faceless corporations, he thought. The fifth emergency service. In case of breakdown from culture shock, they made sure you were never more than a couple of minutes from a bad celebrity autobiography, a crappy DVD player or a piece of over-fried chicken rectum in breadcrumbs. WH Smiths, Currys, Vodafone, McDonalds, Argos…they were all there. So too, thank heavens, was good old Marks & Spencer.

  Mervyn went into M&S and looked through the underpants, trying to decide which shade of grey would suit his bottom. He had just decided on ‘battleship’ when he heard a shout.

  ‘Mr Stone?’

  Mervyn looked around and couldn’t see anyone he recognised.

  ‘Mr Stone? Is that you sir?’

  There was, however, a man he didn’t recognise, looking straight at him and calling his name in an American accent.

  The man surged towards Mervyn and gave him a kind of power hug; grabbing his hand, pulling him forward and giving him a pat on his right shoulder. Mervyn guessed it was an American thing.

  ‘It’s so good to finally meet you, Mr Stone.’

  The man was wearing a tailored grey suit and white shirt, both of which barely covered a compact, muscled body. His green tie was the only splash of colour—it was a customised design, decorated with the word VIXENS in the classic 80s blocky font, and dozens of gold and silver Styraxes arranged in a chessboard pattern. His large head was fringed with a fuzz of receding brown hair. His teeth were two shades too white, and they glowed even brighter because they were sitting under a heavy dark moustache.

  ‘Glad to meet you too.’

  ‘Glad you got here. This country may be small, but it sure is hell getting across it.’

  ‘It was no problem at all.’ It actually took nine hours on a freezing train which stopped every half-mile, but lying was easier. It involved less conversation.

  ‘Hey, where are my manners? I’m Randall. Randall Angelford. My PA exchanged e-mails with you last week.’

  Of course. The man from Product Lazarus Media.

  ‘I tell you, Mr Stone, I’m such an admirer of your work. I saw Vixens from the Void on PBS reruns and it just blew me away.’

  The words didn’t compute. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Just loved it.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Randall caught Mervyn’s tone. ‘Oh sure, it was cheesy and the effects were cheap, and the acting was…odd, but it had real balls, you know? A real one-off! I can’t believe the BBC let the rights go so easily…’

  Can’t think why, thought Mervyn.

  ‘It was really ahead of its time in its sexual politics. You must tell me your secret.’

  ‘I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.’

  Randall barked with delight. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.’ He practically pushed Mervyn out of the shop. Mervyn had no time to protest, and was forced to drop his yet-to-be-purchased underpants onto a nearby shelf. The American guided him up the picturesque high street. Opposite an indoor market was the Cavendish Coffee House, and Randall ushered him inside. There were wooden chairs and tables, waitresses in uniform and cakes under glass. ‘You know that cliché about not being able to find a cup of decent coffee in England? It’s bull. You just got to know where to go.’ He looked around and caught a waitress’s eye. ‘Their lattes are to die for.’

  ‘I like your tie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He stroked his tie proudly. ‘I always get a tie that fits the project I’m working on. When I produced Corpse Cops, I had a tie made with bullet holes and coffins on it. When I exec’d My Electric Girlfriend, it was robots and hearts. When I produced The Sex Lives of Henry the Great, I, well…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I didn’t wear a tie.’

  Mervyn laughed.

  Randall looked at him, and shook his head in wonder. ‘Mervyn Stone. Mervyn friggin’ Stone. I’m so excited that you could be part of this project.’

  ‘Yes I know. I read the press release.’

  Before
he came down to Cornwall, Mervyn picked up Broadcast and read the announcement. It was a typical collage of quotes from people he’d never met, and probably wouldn’t want to. It read:

  The classic BBC science fiction show ‘Vixens from the Void’ will be given a 21st century makeover in the new year.

  Last seen on our screens in 1993, the programme was an exciting galactic romp which dominated Thursday nights in the 1980s with ray-guns, big hair and studded leather space suits.

  This feature-length episode will be made by US Company Product Lazarus Media (Jason and the Astronauts, Jelly Farm, Buggins the Bucket Bear) and will update the story of intergalactic warfare and make it relevant to today, say the show’s producers.

  ‘They were the first Spice Girls. Or should I say “Space Girls”’, quipped ‘Vixens’ show-runner Glyn Trelawney (GSOH, Dog the Wagz). ‘They combined in-your-face sexiness and female liberation years before Girl Power. It’s only fitting that they come back and regain their relevance in 2010.’

  ‘It’s a dream come true to be working with Glyn,’ says PLM’s Executive Producer Louise Felcham. ‘He brings a real passion to the project. It’s a testament to the enduring legacy of the original programme that he is on board.’

  Working on the project will be the show’s original co-creator, Mervyn Stone. ‘It’s a great honour to be working with Mervyn,’ added Louise. ‘His enthusiasm and knowledge about what made the original show work has proved invaluable in bringing the crew of the Starship Hyperion into the 21st century.’

  Produced by the award-winning team behind Chavland and The Cliff, this pilot will be an epic, exciting, adventure-packed sci-fi drama certain to appeal to Saturday-night audiences.

  Mervyn was sure he had never met this woman Louise, and he was certain that his enthusiasm (none) and knowledge (sketchy at best) hadn’t been called upon. If it had been called upon, he might have pointed out that Vixens from the Void was not the story of ‘the crew of the Starship Hyperion’. She just made it sound like Star Trek.

  He pointed this out to Randall, who waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, that’s just the usual mindless happy-clappy stuff Product Lazarus puts out for media consumption. In the world of the press release, everyone’s delighted and everyone’s honoured. That’s just their way.’

  ‘Their way? But aren’t you Mr Product Lazarus?’

  Randall sipped his coffee. ‘I’m the new boy. Just moved from cable station Surefire TV. This is my first project with PLM. My baby! To say this is a departure for PLM is a making a huge understatement. PLM usually just buy up old kid’s TV shows with strong nostalgia brand recognition and turn them into modern franchises.’

  ‘Yes, I saw. I looked up their website.’

  When Mervyn was approached by Product Lazarus, he Googled them—and found out that they were the ones who had been single-handedly raping his childhood…

  He remembered watching Buggins the Bucket Bear as a small boy. It was a five-minute programme about a bear that sat on a bucket. Every week, Buggins would walk down to the bottom of the garden with his bucket to water the plants. He’d sit on his bucket as he talked to Shelley the snail, and then walk back again. The End. Buggin’s exploits didn’t exactly stretch the animators of this, admittedly cheap, cartoon.

  He watched the new version of Buggins the Bucket Bear on Product Lazarus’s website. It was a fast-moving riot of head-straining computer graphics, smeared with colour and noise. Buggins had a baseball cap, 23 new friends, a magic talking bucket, and his own hovercraft.

  Randall was delighted that Mervyn had made the effort. ‘So you see what PLM do normally! So you get this is a big big thing for them! It’s a big thing for me too. So I really am genuinely pleased you could be here, Mr Stone.’

  ‘Please, call me Mervyn.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘I’m glad to be here. And I’m really glad that you’re glad that I’m here, but to be honest, Randall, I don’t really know why I’m here.’

  ‘Hey, you know the score. PLM have bought the rights to Vixens, but only you could provide the Styrax. Can’t get round that one.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Randall, but I would have been happy to sign an agreement for the use of the Styrax in a warm comfy office in London and forget all about it. I hardly need to get paid a retainer for my services, though the fee is extremely generous. I haven’t actually done anything yet.’

  ‘Well the show’s just getting started, Merv. We guys don’t want to hang around during the boring planning stuff, like what colour the scripts are going to be, or where we get the cappuccinos from. We’re creatives! I only just got here myself.’ A thought struck him. ‘Hey, if you want to get your sleeves rolled up and your hands dirty, I’m scheduled to attend a tone meeting this pm at Phoenix Wharf. You could tag along; give us the benefit of your years of expertise. Let’s face it, no one knows Vixens from the Void better than you.’

  ‘You could throw a rock at any sci-fi convention and hit someone who knows Vixens better; a theory I’ve often longed to test out.’

  Randall hooted with laughter and slapped Mervyn on the back.

  ‘Then think of yourself as my own personal morale-booster, Merv.’

  ‘Morale-booster? Things not going well, then?’

  Randall looked at Mervyn out of the corner of his eye, as if taking him seriously for the first time. ‘Hey, you know what? For this stage in the production process, things are going just fine.’

  Oh. That badly.

  *

  He and Randall drove to Truro in Randall’s car (a monstrous customised 4x4 with American style indulgences: Tinted windows, i-pods fixed on the back seats, and incredibly, an ‘in-flight’ television which sprang out of the dashboard and played pop videos—even when the car was moving) and pulled up at Product Lazarus’s offices. PLM had taken over three whole floors of a ‘Cornish Business Village’—or that was what the sign on the front said. Like the place Mervyn was staying, here was another ‘village’, that had no business calling itself a village.

  It used to be a local radio station. The last time Mervyn was here, doing some wretched interview to promote something he couldn’t recall, it looked like a large grey shoebox that had been dumped by the side of the river. Now it was an incredibly large grey shoebox, some five storeys high, encased in glass and steel. Construction work was in progress, but it looked like it was going slowly; one side of the building was imprisoned in a cage of scaffolding. They went into reception, which still smelled of paint. The cheesy photos of radio DJs were gone and replaced by a collection of logos of advertising companies behind the desk, all slightly different, but all very much the same. They went into the lift and up to a large windowless room, where the tone meeting was taking place.

  There was nothing wrong with having tone meetings in Mervyn’s opinion; it was a new concept to him, but he wasn’t some old curmudgeon primed to grumble about anything that wasn’t done in His Day. In His Day, scripts were knocked together by writers who were positively discouraged from having any part in the production process. If a writer was discovered on the premises during production, rabid packs of runners were set upon him, savagely baring the teeth on their crocodile clips. In His Day, Mervyn (as script editor) was the only one designated to translate the writer’s wishes to the production team, and the only one designated to explain to the writer (who more often than not, didn’t watch television) what the damn show was about. He once took a day off sick and came in the following morning to find visual effects trying to make a ‘spiceship’. He explained to them that it was a typo in the script, but he had to bring in the director and the producer to back him up before he could get them to put down the intricately constructed model of a clipper and turn their talents to making a ‘spaceship’. The idea that there would be a special meeting of the whole production team to actually talk to each other about how to make the programme appealed to him.

  His enthusiasm died when he entered the room, and saw who was sitting at the corner
of the table. A middle-aged man, with grey hair perched squarely on his square head, a square jaw hanging above square shoulders. Square wire-framed glasses squatted on his square nose. He looked like a TV director made out of Stickle Bricks.

  ‘You remember Ken Roche?’ said Randall.

  Ken? Ken Roche? An actual director from the crappy old Vixens was directing the brand-spanking shiny new, all-singing, all-dancing 21st century Vixens?

  Randall realised that Mervyn wasn’t speaking, and felt he needed to explain. Damn right he needed to explain. ‘I’m sure you’ll have lots to talk about with Ken. He worked with you didn’t he? We thought it was important to have continuity with the classic series. Someone who knew how the show worked.’

  Someone who knew how the show worked? Ken Roche? The worst director they ever had? The one whose attitude to special effects was the less special and the less effective the better? The one who had a mental breakdown on set, and took to hiding in the boot of his own car? The one who hated Mervyn’s guts just for being the script editor and for pointing out Ken hadn’t even properly read the scripts he was directing? The one who rolled around on the floor punching him while the trees around them burned?

  Ken Roche?

  Randall noticed that Mervyn still wasn’t talking. ‘You okay, Merv?’

  ‘Can I speak to you outside for a moment, Randall?’

  They shuffled outside to the corridor.

  ‘Some kind of problem?’ asked Randall.

  ‘Yes Randall, you could say there’s some kind of a problem.’ Mervyn’s voice had dropped down to a whisper. Because the only alternative was going up to a scream. ‘That man in there is the biggest disaster ever to strike television. Ken Roche is a one-man broadcasting tsunami.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘Then let me explain. He was the Vixens director who, when advised by special effects that it would be a good idea to use a tiny model for his “exploding spaceship” scene, ignored them and built a full-sized replica of said spaceship on location. He set fire to it. He nearly burnt the OB van, and incinerated half a dozen sheep in the process.’