by Nev Fountain
A one-ton silence crashed onto the table. Everyone had joined Louise in looking at the fixtures and fittings of the room.
‘Gosh, you know what?’ beamed Glyn. ‘Mervyn, you’re exactly right, my lovely! Of course you are! After all, that’s why you’re here, and we’re all extremely grateful for your sage counsel! Of course they shouldn’t giggle, what an idea! You must forgive me, Mervyn, what was I thinking?’ He started scribbling chunks of the scripts out with his marker pen. ‘Robots don’t giggle! Why didn’t you point that out to me Nick?’
Nick looked defensive. ‘Well, I did suggest we cut all the giggling for reasons of time…’
‘Yes, but they’re robots, Nick, my lovely. Why would they giggle?’
*
The read-through finally finished, and there was a small ripple of appreciative applause from everyone round the table. Mervyn knew that there was always an element of that after a first read-through; mostly it was due to relief that the script held together and made some sort of vague sense rather than any genuine enthusiasm, but he had to admit that Glyn’s script was a fun piece of work; a bit glib, a bit facile in places, but a witty, exciting undemanding 90 minutes of prime-time melodrama.
So at least Glyn could write, despite his ‘eccentricities’. Perhaps it was worth indulging him, even with his obvious mental problems? Perhaps he should talk to Randall about the threat in the lift.
Maybe. He would think about it later. Right now there were more pressing problems on his mind. There was just too much coffee available in these read-throughs. Mervyn had over-indulged and his bladder had mutinied. He needed to go again—fast.
He bounded up the flights of steps and back into the toilet. He was in the process of closing the cubicle door when the outer door banged open.
‘What the fuck is that old toot doing on my show?’
That was Glyn Trelawney’s voice. The affected Cornish accent was gone again and he was channelling the usual Estuary English whine of TV people everywhere.
‘Mervyn Stone. Who the fuck is he to tell me my characters can’t giggle? What is he doing round my table? Why is a fat old nobody telling me what to do on my show?’
Mervyn desperately wanted to hear the rest of the conversation. If he locked the cubicle door, they’d notice that someone was in here with them and might stop talking. He stood on the toilet, quietly pushing the cubicle door to a 45-degree angle. He hoped it looked as though no one was in the cubicle.
‘Randall insisted on having him on the show, Glyn,’ said Nick Dodd.
‘“Randall insisted, Randall insisted.” That’s all I hear from you these days. “Randall insisted”!’
‘I’m sorry Glyn, I’m really sorry. I can’t do anything about it.’
‘No. I suppose you can’t. You are only the producer, after all.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Forget about it.’
‘But I can’t. I just feel like I’m letting you down.’ Nick sounded like he was on the verge of tears.
‘Hey, hey. Nick. Nick, Nick, Nick. Just listen. Listen. Listen to me, my lovely.’ Glyn’s voice had quietened, returning to Cornish. His tone became soft, reassuring.
Mervyn pressed his eye up to the edge of the door, and could just see them by the sinks. Glyn held Nick’s face in his hands, pushing his cheeks together and forcing him to look in his eyes. ‘You’re not letting me down. Don’t ever think that. I owe everything to you, don’t I?’
Nick nodded dumbly.
‘If it wasn’t for you I’d be in jail right now, wouldn’t I my lovely? I’d be the reluctant girlfriend of an eight-foot-tall con called Bubba. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’d be eating fried chicken for my last meal, on my way to getting my roots done with a five-million-volt hairdryer. So I owe you big time? All right, my lovely?’
‘Okay.’
Glyn kissed Nick full on the lips very hard, and released him. Nick wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Glyn pulled out a paper towel from a dispenser and gave to him.
‘Thanks.’
‘Thank God for paper towels, eh? Imagine trying to dry your tears under a hand-dryer.’
‘Thanks. I’m better now. I’m fine. I’ll be right outside. Thanks. Sorry.’
Nick backed out of the toilet, mumbling and wiping his eyes.
Mervyn moved to a slightly better position to see more clearly and nearly slipped off the toilet. He put his hand out to steady himself and let go of the door, which swung gently closed. Mervyn instinctively put his hand in between the door and the catch to muffle an inevitable clunk, but in doing so his fingers were visible from outside the cubicle.
Glyn didn’t notice the door move or Mervyn’s fingers appear. He gave a sigh that spoke of infinite weariness and leaned on a sink for support. He looked in the mirror above the sinks, then his eyes focused on the sign just below his nose.
‘“Now wash your hands”,’ he muttered, reading the sign. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
>CLICK<
[SIGH]
Oh God.
I knew it.
I just knew it.
As if being stuck in Dreary in the county of Fuckall isn’t enough.
Today was so full of shit.
Today I was fed a sewage sandwich, followed by turd on toast, washed down with a manure margarita. Today, I was dipped in a sty full of pigshit and while I was lying there in the shit, the biggest, stupidest shittiest pig just shat all over my head.
I mean, what the hell is he doing here? What’s the point of him? I knew he would shove his piggy nose in my face. I knew he was going to challenge me.
It’s no good. I’m going to have to kill him. I’ve decided. I’m going to kill him, I’m going to make him squeal like the piggy he is and then I’m going to shove his Styrax up his fat pig arsehole.
But first, I’m going to have a practice.
Call it a rehearsal.
I’m going to kill someone, just to see if I can. Just to see what if feels like.
And I’m going to do it tonight.
And if I like it?
Mervyn fucking shitting arsing Stone will be next.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘All I said was “Styrax don’t giggle.” They just don’t.’
The long day was over, and everyone had vanished into their rented cottages, hired flats and hotel rooms. Mervyn couldn’t help but notice that the ‘big names’ all had rooms in Truro. His room was ten miles away. He was stranded again. And this time it was getting dark.
He had to wait around for Randall to give him a lift back to Falmouth and Randall insisted on taking Mervyn direct to the Black Prince, which was a great relief. But before they left, he also insisted on buying Mervyn dinner. Mervyn was quite tired and keen to get to bed (he was also keen to get back to see if he could bump into Maggie in the bar, but he’d been in there two nights running, and she seemed elusive in the evenings), but he was a writer. He never turned down free food.
So here they were, in the Falmouth Bay Seafood Café, talking about the day’s events. Mervyn wrenched a claw off his lobster.
‘I mean it’s not a radical comment to make, is it? They’ve never giggled before. Not unless they’ve had some personality transplant since 1993. I once owned a car that seemed to snigger behind my back when it coughed and died on the sides of busy motorways, but it never actually laughed in my face.’
Randall gave a greasy laugh. He had already disembowelled his lobster and was starting on the smaller shellfish that decorated the edge of his plate.
‘Watch your lovely tie, Randall,’ added Mervyn, ‘I wouldn’t like to see it get stained.’
Randall gave a thumbs-up and tucked his napkin more securely round his throat.
Mervyn carried on justifying himself. ‘It’s hardly a radical thing to say in a Vixens from the Void meeting. In my considerable experience as creator and writer of the classic show, I’ve never heard a S
tyrax giggle.’
‘Hey, you get no argument from me, Merv. I watched the show, remember?’
‘Which is more than what Glyn Trelawney ever did.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just something someone told me. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I’ve been told that Glyn never even watched Vixens from the Void. He’s just pretending to be a fan to get the job.’
Randall didn’t seem bothered. He wrenched a mussel apart and then shrugged, one half of shell in each hand.
‘Yeah, well I kinda knew that.’
‘Oh. Did you?’
‘Yeah; well, I suspected. These are the games we play in television. You have an interview at a studio to script-doctor an Adam Sandler movie and suddenly you’re his greatest ever fan ever, and you think he’s better than Monty Python, the Marx Brothers and Laurel and Hardy put together. And it is your life’s ambition, no, your life’s dream, the very pinnacle of your career to rewrite one of his fart gags.’
‘I wish I could do that. Lie, I mean, not rewrite fart gags. I probably would have got on a lot better.’
‘Hey, you do all right. You’re sitting in the middle of a large-scale TV production with big money behind it, and it’s all a testament to your genius.’
I’m actually sitting in a restaurant, because the production team won’t get me a car to send me back to my very cheap bed and breakfast which is stuck in the middle of nowhere, thought Mervyn.
‘I don’t understand what Glyn’s doing,’ Mervyn changed the subject. ‘It would solve all his problems if he just created a new monster of his own. I could jot one down on this napkin here and I’d have something horrible with laser eyes by the time the dessert menus come round. He must like the Styrax an awful lot.’
Randall grinned. ‘Glyn hates the Styrax. He doesn’t want to use them at all. He wants to create his own new monster. Get all that lovely merchandise money in his wallet.’
Mervyn looked surprised. ‘So why are they in the script?’
‘Because my people wanted them there. That’s one of the conditions for the cash we’re giving to the project. The Styrax are the one thing about the series that Glyn can’t get rid of. I insisted they be in the pilot, and the suits agree with me. Every one! I’ve convinced them all that the Styrax are essential to the success of the new Vixens from the Void.’ Randall grinned. ‘He plays games with me, I play games with him. That’s television.’ He waved a fork at Mervyn. ‘You know, you are doing exactly the right thing by digging your heels in over the giggling, Mervy.’
‘Well I wasn’t really. I was just pointing out…’
‘You are protecting your creation, Merv. I’m sure you guessed this, but what Glyn is trying to do with the whole giggling thing is to make the Styrax his property. He’s trying to change them just enough so after the success of the new Vixens from the Void he can turn around and say “Guys, look, the only reason they’re so popular with kids is the fact they giggle. I want to share copyright with Mervyn Stone on every giggling Styrax in the shops. Cos if a Styrax toy comes out and they don’t giggle, then little Johnny is going to be throwing his toys at the wall, saying ‘Where’s my giggling Styrax?’ So therefore I have to co-own them or they stay mute. QED.” That’s what he’s trying to do, and you’re doing the right thing by stopping him. Well done that guy.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mervyn, in a very small voice.
*
They climbed into Randall’s huge car and set off into the countryside. The journey played out in front of Mervyn like a horror movie projected onto the windscreen. The roads were murky and the spindly trees rushed past in terrifying blackness.
‘Randall, I agree that the Styrax are fun, but they’re hardly essential. You’ve created a world of trouble for yourself by insisting on them. Your writer and show-runner hates them. He obviously hates me, because he threatened me today.’
‘He threatened you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aw, he probably just got a bit tense. It is the first read-through, after all.’
‘But… Glyn does seem to have ‘problems’ with his behaviour, to say the least. There’s no telling what he might do.’
‘You mean the voice thing? He’s like a lot of actors I know, no character of their own, so they take on different personalities to give them leverage. It’s not uncommon, Merv. Glyn might have his…eccentricities, but he won’t do anything stupid. He’s hungry for mainstream television success. He’s desperate to find a show that pours money into his pocket and keeps on pouring.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I reckon I’m a pretty good judge. And if he does do anything stupid, I’ll be ready.’
‘I still don’t understand why the Styrax are so essential. They weren’t even introduced in the original until season two.’
Was it Mervyn’s imagination, or was the car speeding up? Surely not…
Yes it was. Randall was gripping the wheel with intensity, his eyes fixed murderously on the road.
‘I have my reasons, Merv,’ he said, barely opening his mouth. He said nothing more, and the car slowed again.
Mervyn was deposited outside the tavern and he watched Randall’s car turn round in a wide circle. The headlights hit him, plastering his shadow on the wall of the tavern. His night-accustomed eyes were bathed in the glare—there was so much light in his face it was painful—and he had a sudden flashback to the arc light that almost fell on him, back on the other Cornish Vixens shoot.
Another time; another life.
Then the 4x4 left the driveway and left him in darkness. It sped into the night. Tiny red lights stared at him like the eyes of demons before disappearing into the trees.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
>CLICK<
[SIGH]
Oh shitting bollocks.
[PANT]
I did it. I just killed someone.
[PANT]
I’m sure of it.
The day had not gone well. Fucking Mervyn was laughing at me. They all were laughing at me. Even fucking Nick.
[SIGH]
He was smiling. That fucking pussy was smiling at me. Me!
You useless fucking pansy. I’ll show him. I’ll show everyone.
I drove back last night; in the dark, as usual. The dark is very relaxing. I keep the lights off in my room because the bulb hurts my eyes. I’m starting to like the dark.
I was driving back. The trees were glowing in the lights. They were coming at me out of the darkness, pointing at me and laughing. Just like everyone. It’s not just them. I know when we start filming, those fucking Styrax will start laughing at me too.
There she was, trudging along the side of the road with her little dog. Silly cow. I wouldn’t be out on a night like this if they paid me. Stupid thing to say. They do pay me, and I do go out on nights like this. I am the whore of television.
I didn’t know what I was doing. Okay, I DID know what I was doing. I knew damn well what I was doing. I was doing my rehearsal for murdering Mervyn shitting Stone.
I just moved the wheel to the left, just a little, that’s all it took. Just slightly to the left. I caught her with the side of my car; she spun around with her arms in the air, just like a ballerina in a music box. Flew over my bonnet waving her umbrella. It was like watching the death of Mary Poppins. I just carried on, on into the dark. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It hadn’t happened. If I couldn’t see it, it never happened. Oh yeah, it’s in my mind’s eye. I can see her body mashed against the hedges; I can imagine the little dog sniffing her body, barking for help.
But I didn’t see it, so it didn’t happen.
I drove 20 miles to find an all-night car wash. Had to get the marks off the bumper. Then I went back to my room. I lay in the darkness, listening to the gurgling pipes in the bathroom. The ticking of the clock on the wall.
I realised that yes, it had happened. I had done it. I had done it. The rehearsal was over.
I liked it.
Time f
or Mervyn fucking Stone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was Oh My God in the morning, and Mervyn was in a taxi heading to an out-of-town supermarket somewhere near Helston.
He wasn’t in the best of moods. First, he had run out of underpants. If only he had thought to pack more than three pairs. If only he had gone back to Marks & Spencer. If only he had nipped out to the shops during the read-through in Truro; but he’d been too busy lurking about in toilets. So he had been re-using old pairs, selecting them by sense of smell, least pungent first. But now he was wearing his emergency pair, which were big and baggy and looked like they’d been used for washing a car.
Second, he knew he was going to have a long boring day kicking his heels and doing nothing and the early start meant he’d missed his regular breakfast assignation with Maggie. But he couldn’t cry off. He’d done nothing for his employer but piss off the writer (and he knew how pissed off writers can get), so he felt he needed to show up and look busy. He’d even punched holes in his script and put it in a binder.
He listened drowsily to the driver’s low rumbling voice. It made a nice change from listening to London drivers moaning about immigrants coming from the wrong parts of Europe. Now he could listen to Cornish drivers moaning about immigrants coming from the wrong parts of England. Thankfully, Mervyn soon saw familiar luminous signs with ‘LOC’ printed on them, which indicated that they were getting near to the location shoot. The taxi pulled up and let him out and Mervyn found himself in a car park. A cold supermarket car park in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully there was a location bus parked nearby, with extras and crew tucking into huge breakfasts from the nearby catering van. Mervyn remembered how he used to spend a few weeks a year on location and he’d always put on about half a stone. You could always identify the hardened guys who spent their lives on the road; they waddled around like the missing link between ape and hippo.
