by Nev Fountain
‘What is my problem? I have many problems. I can make a long list.’ Of course you can.
Graham’s fat fingers on his left hand were prodded in turn with the index finger on his right as he ticked off his points. ‘The lesbian bits, the profanity, the silly dialogue about sex tapes, the boyfriend stuff, the silly fat-looking Styrax, the clumsy references to terrorism… I could go on. This has nothing to do with the spirit of Vixens.’
‘Graham, there’s no “spirit” of Vixens. It was just a piece of 80s telly that was influenced by the fashions, politics and other television programmes of the time. If you revive the programme now, it’s bound to be influenced by the politics, fashions and television of now. It can’t be just the same. There’s no point just trying to recreate the past exactly. If you do you’re bound to fail.’
Graham ignored him. He was in full flow now and he wasn’t about to stop any time soon. ‘Eighteen years I’ve begged the BBC to let me have the rights. Eighteen long years. I poured half my fortune into setting up a film production company just on the off chance that they would ask an independent company to remake the show. I’ve asked 14 times, but each time the BBC said no they’ve given a different reason. Reason one: we have no plans to bring Vixens from the Void back; reason two: we are planning to bring Vixens from the Void back and talking to an independent film-maker would jeopardise negotiations with the other independent film-makers we are talking to; reason three: the negotiations with the independent film-maker have fallen through, and for that reason we are no longer considering approaches from any independent film-makers; reason four…’
‘Oh God,’ groaned Mervyn. ‘Please stop with the lists. It always happens. Have any conversation with any fan and it’ll inevitably degenerate into bloody lists…’
Graham blinked. He had lost the place in his speech. ‘Lists are very important,’ he said. ‘They organise the thoughts; they present information in an easy-to-digest form. If it wasn’t for lists I wouldn’t have known when the edits were and I wouldn’t have saved all the original unbroadcast studio footage by stuffing them down my—’
‘And now you’re making a list about how lists are important!’ Mervyn wasn’t a man who liked confrontation, but once he was angry enough he could quite happily scream like a hangover-encrusted Vanity Mycroft who’d been handed a glass of Shloer instead of a vintage Roederer.
‘Graham, I really can’t help you. And if I could, I don’t think I’d want to. My job revolves around making money from my work. And if a bunch of nice television people happen to want to pay me good money for my creations then I’m there in the queue banking the cheque.’
Graham looked sulky; he looked like he wished he hadn’t saved Mervyn from the dogs.
A thought struck Mervyn. He slapped his head in realisation. ‘Wait a minute… Did you ring up my son and ask him about the rights to the Styrax? Did you ask him if he was prepared to sell you the rights in the event of my death?’
‘The rights of the Styrax are incredibly valuable to me. I want them. I made enquiries, just like I do with any piece of merchandise. It’s what any sane person would do.’
‘Oh my God. You bloody nutter. You give no consideration between the thought and the act, do you? You think of something, you do it, and hang the consequences.’
Graham was about to retort, but he was interrupted by the Vixens from the Void theme emerging from nowhere. Graham rushed to a model of the Hyperion, picked up its top engine and held it to his mouth.
‘Hi. Yes of course, glad you could ring. Don’t worry about how late it is. I was up anyway. No, really. Glad to. I’m sure you’re very busy.’ Graham listened. ‘No, it wasn’t inconvenient in the slightest. I needed to stay in tonight anyway to listen to a dub.’ It was as if Mervyn had suddenly ceased to exist. He was almost hurt. ‘Really? Oh fantastic. You won’t regret it. I’ll be ready. Goodbye. And thanks a million. Bye. Thanks again. Bye.’
Graham Goldingay put the phone down and turned back to Mervyn, his face triumphant.
‘I’ve been waiting for that call all night, trembling with anticipation. Do you know who that was?’
‘Meals on wheels?’
‘That was your executive producer, Mr Randall Angelford. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future. A lot more. My new job, as of now, is continuity advisor on the revamped Vixens from the Void.’
Mervyn didn’t know what to say to that.
Eventually, he said ‘Bollocks.’ Sometimes the simple retorts worked best.
‘It’s true Mervyn.’ He pulled his day pass off his collar, and showed it to him. It was definitely a real one, not one of the home-made photocopied ones Graham made in the 80s. ‘I was meeting your producer yesterday and I start tomorrow.’
Another thought struck Mervyn. ‘You were there yesterday? That was you too, wasn’t it? You were going through my bag, looking at my script!’
‘You’ll find that difficult to prove.’
‘That’s how you knew about what was in the show! I should have known! Have you been leaking stuff to the press? Have you been taking footage of behind-the-scenes arguments and putting them on the web?’
Graham sniffed. ‘More accusations. Of course I haven’t, I’ve only managed to visit your set yesterday. I have not had access to filming yet, a point I made forcefully to your executive producer.’ Graham moved his considerable weight from foot to foot. ‘And I repeat what I said just a moment ago for the record. I’m not happy with aspects of the reboot, but I’m very excited and delighted to get this opportunity to shape the production and to work from within to bring it up to an acceptable standard.’ Bizarrely, Graham saluted. ‘I look forward to working with you on this new project.’
*
Mervyn said his goodbyes and left Graham’s house, his head swimming with shock. Graham had been made continuity advisor to the new show? By the executive producer? Mervyn assumed that it might be Louise who wanted to sabotage the shoot, or some mad fan, but now he realised that the evidence had been staring him in the face all along. Who was really trying to sabotage the production? Who had decided to employ Ken Roche? Who was antagonising Glyn by insisting on using the Styrax? Who had just appointed Graham Goldingay as ‘Continuity Advisor’?
It was Randall Angelford.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
>CLICK<
[SIGH]
Jesus Christ. He’s back.
Graham Goldingay is on set, that walking lump of cholesterol is here, I saw him, poking around.
[SIGH]
The fat fuck. I should kill him. But no. If I stabbed him he’d probably fall on me and kill me too.
Anyway, relax. Mervyn died tonight, and that’s what I set out to do. One death on set is enough. Can’t raise suspicions. Mervyn died out on the moors last night. Everything’s fine.
He’s gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Mervyn woke up, saw the badger snarling on his stomach, screamed, threw it off, and lay there, heart pounding.
He was still wearing his clothes; he’d just collapsed on the bed the moment he’d got in last night.
Last night.
He thought about the events of last night. Randall Angelford. It was obvious now. Everything he’d done seemed to plunge the production into more chaos.
Of course the same might be said of me, thought Mervyn guiltily.
He looked at it from a slightly different point of view, that of an outsider, and easily fitted the evidence together to make it look like he was the saboteur, bent on bringing the production to a halt. It was him who caused rows on set, ruined Glyn’s plans to revamp the Styrax his way and caused Holly to cry in her trailer for a morning. Perhaps Randall wasn’t a saboteur; perhaps he was just guilty of being naïve? He would have to tackle him about Graham’s appointment at the earliest opportunity.
But—Graham Goldingay?
Was Graham genuine when he said he didn’t know about the note, or was he just playing mind games? It was certainly part of Graham’s character t
o put pressure on celebrities in subtle ways so they’d do his bidding. Was all that business with the dogs part of the softening up process, so Mervyn would gladly remove the Styrax from the new series? Or was there a darker reason? This was the third time in two days he’d had an ‘accidental’ brush with death. Was Graham behind it all?
But Graham had been at home. Who could have pushed the note under his door? Who had been here, in the pub that night? Had the butler done it? Nick had been here. Glyn Trelawney had been here. Should he go to the police with what he had thus far? He’d had an encounter with the boys in blue during that bloodbath of a sci-fi convention, and regarding that DVD commentary murder, the year after. He knew how they responded when he—a writer well known for his far-fetched stories—arrived with a far-fetched story of murder.
They either ignored him or arrested him.
He didn’t feel that the cornish constabulary would be any more helpful. He was on his own. He had to sort this out and sort it soon.
He wondered who was doing the leaking. He stared at the badger. He’d seen a lot of spy films; perhaps he himself was spilling the beans? He examined the badger for bugging devices, tried to dig one of its eyes out, but no; it was just a rather mangy stuffed badger.
He got up and looked at his underpants, which were soaking in the bathroom sink. The heating had kicked in now because the timer had worked out it was October, so he’d decided to wash his pants and dry them on the radiator. Of course, he’d forgotten all about them and left them there. Even if he put them on the radiator this minute, there was no way any of them would be remotely wearable in time. He’d catch his death of cold. His swimming trunks were in no fit state to be worn again, so he made an executive decision; he would go without today. It was not a decision a man of his age took lightly. He felt his unfettered penis drag against the inside of his trousers as he went downstairs and flinched at the unusual feeling.
Mervyn had woken up late and missed breakfast. He’d missed Maggie, too. He wished he could have talked to her. He realised he was too blasé about this potential murderer stuff. He had scared her, and he was deeply sorry about it.
His lift to work failed to turn up, too. After half an hour, he came to the conclusion that Randall had forgotten him. He’d tried to call him, but alas, no signal. There was no sign of Penny. Perhaps she was feeling hurt that Glyn ran off into the night with a man? Perhaps not; she didn’t seem energised about anything much. It was likely she’d realised Randall wasn’t turning up and made her own arrangements without telling Mervyn. And perhaps it was just as well he had no lift. If Randall was some psycho saboteur, perhaps it would be better to tackle him on it when he wasn’t behind the wheel of a fast car.
So Mervyn took a taxi. For once he was thankful that his driver kept up a jolly stream of gossip about new parking restrictions in Newquay and how the rugby clubhouse in Falmouth had been painted. It all felt blissfully normal.
*
The filming had moved to Truro. Large green screens had been erected in the Royal Cornwall Museum on the high street. They were close to the Product Lazarus building, which meant no need for catering vans and other location vehicles. The crew were running out of the Oo-ar Bar, clutching clotted creamoccinos.
Randall and Nick were outside the library when Mervyn found them. He walked up to them and gatecrashed their conversation.
‘Randall, I want a word with you.’
Seeing Mervyn, Nick gave an embarrassed smile but said nothing.
Randall slapped his forehead in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Oh Merv! I’m sorry I didn’t pick you up this morning. I had such a lot on my mind, Valerie wanted to talk to me first thing about the Gorg costumes, and I just rushed out the door, I didn’t think…’
‘I don’t want to talk about that. What the hell is this about?’ Mervyn flapped the call sheet under his nose, making Randall’s fancy green tie shudder in the breeze it made. On the call list were the words ‘Graham Goldingay—Continuity Advisor’, and a contact phone number. ‘Graham Goldingay? Are you serious?’
‘Oh yeah. Yes. That’s right. Graham Goldingay. I hired him last night. Don’t worry Merv, you officially outrank him. I made that very clear.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Of course I do. He was Continuity Advisor on the old series. You used him in the past. I’ve read your production notes.’
‘We didn’t use him at all. We gave him the title “Continuity Advisor” so he would stop ringing up the production office and annoying the secretary. A move that completely failed to work, I might add. He’s a gossip, he’s an attention-seeker and he’s completely hostile to the whole concept of the relaunch.’
‘I know that Merv. I’ve had about 300 letters from him since we got announced. I thought if I brought him inside the tent then he’d stop pissing on us. It worked for Harry Knowles.’
‘Harry Knowles?’
‘He runs a powerful website in the US, puts out reviews that a lot of suits think can make or break a movie. He’s a big fat fan who spits his dummy out a lot—sound familiar? But the bottom line is, the suits think Harry can be bought by freebies and flattery. They work on the assumption that he can be swayed by a pat on the head and a plate of free cookies. They think the same will be true for Graham.’
‘Graham can’t be bought. He’s a pathological headcase who cannot be swayed. No matter what you do, he will eventually take offence at you; he will find something you’ve done that he thinks is unacceptable, scream the internet down, throw his expensive collectable toys out of his pram, blame you for making him break them and buy some more expensive collectable toys to throw at you. There’s no telling what mischief he’s been up to since he’s been on set.’
Nick looked alarmed. Randall just shook his head and smiled. ‘Mervyn, you’re exaggerating.’
‘I only wish I were.’
‘He’s harmless, I’m sure.’
‘That’s what you said about Ken.’
At the mention of Ken, Nick’s left eye twitched.
‘Yeah, you were right about Ken, Merv, and I salute you for your wise counsel, but Graham’s okay. He’s promised to be good.’
‘Graham can’t promise anything. He has no control over what he does.’
As if saying his name conjured him from thin air, Graham appeared, like a killer whale launching on to a glacier ready to consume an unsuspecting sealion. He was caressing his crew pass with his thumb.
‘Hey Randall, Mervyn, Nick.’
Mervyn flinched. Nick stared. Randall just gave his winning grin. ‘Hey Graham. How’s it going?’
‘Wonderfully. This is so wonderful, Randall, a dream come true. Hey, I love your tie,’ he said. ‘Is it for sale?’
‘Perhaps,’ grinned Randall. ‘I normally auction them for charity at the wrap party. You could be in with a chance.’
‘Fantastic. It’ll be mine.’ It was a statement of fact, not intention. ‘Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to take part in this enterprise and be a part of television history.’
‘Great. So what’s on your mind, Graham?’
‘Oh, nothing much. I’ve had a quick read of the script, and it’s great, really great. I’ve just noticed a few things…’
Here we go, thought Mervyn.
‘Elysia says in scene 19 that “The Styrax are going to be through that door in minutes.” Glyn might not know this, but they don’t have “minutes” as a measurement of time on Vixos. They say “klakks”.’
‘Okay. That’s good to know.’
‘Of course, I thought you might have decided to use “minutes” anyway. I know this is for a mainstream audience, and they might get turned off by weird-sounding names for everything, so I thought I’d flag it up with you, in case you want to raise it with Glyn. No worries either way. Just thought I’d mention it.’ Graham ambled off.
Randall looked at Mervyn, a faint twinkle in his eye. ‘He just thought he’d mention it?’
‘Well…’
/> ‘He thought he’d “flag it up” with me, in case I want to raise it with Glyn…?’
‘It’s a ruse. He’s pretending.’
‘As long as he keeps pretending like that, he’ll be just fine. Perhaps you can take a leaf out of his book, Merv? After all, “flagging things up” with me before tinkering around with a script…well it’s more than you did, isn’t it?’
Mervyn’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment.
Randall looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got another hour ‘til lunch, and then I want the senior staff back to the office. We’ve got a Gorg to accessorise.’
CHAPTER FORTY
>CLICK<
WHAT THE FUCK?
FUCK!
FUCK!
FUCK IT!
FUCK!
I failed. I was so sure it was going to work this time. I was just waiting for the morning papers to arrive, so sure there’d be something in it about his death. I was so sure they’d find his mangled body.
When he didn’t turn up to the production meeting that morning, I was so sure. So sure he was a bloody stain on the moors.
[SIGH]
Fate, you have a cruel way of taunting me. You made him come in late this morning? Of all mornings? You made me think he was dead for a whole blissful couple of hours, and then make him shuffle in like nothing has happened?
So he’s still alive. Three times! Three times I’ve tried to kill him! And there he is again. Jesus wept.
[SIGH]
God, Mervyn, just fucking die, why don’t you? Show some good manners and realise when you’re not wanted. God, he’s fucking indestructible. It’s like trying to wash a spider down the plughole.
[SIGH]
Perhaps God is protecting him.
Oh no.
Perhaps he is God.
He is creator of this world. He created the Styrax. He created this show. He’s the reason we’re all here.
Perhaps there is no world outside his world. Perhaps we’re all figments of his imagination. Yeah, that’s it. He has to die, so we can all be released from this hellish shithole.
