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

by Nev Fountain

  There’s only one way to find out. For the sake of all of us, I have to kill him, I have to succeed and I have to do it soon.

  For all our sakes.

  I’ve got to do something!

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Lunch was called and everyone dashed back to the Oo-ar Bar to stock up on pastinis. Mervyn headed over to the Cornish Business Village. The big metal shoebox was still half-encased in scaffolding and he hadn’t seen a single workman on either of the days he’d been there.

  Mervyn was sent to the top floor of the building, which was open-plan and much lighter than the dingy room where they’d held the read-throughs. It had a corporate feel, of course—a huge black table dominated the room with phones fixed to it. Black swivel chairs skulked around the outside, some of them still covered in protective plastic. Small glass-panelled offices were hidden away in the corners. Wide sash windows looked out onto the river.

  Nick, Ken, Louise and Randall were already there when he arrived and joined them at the table. The male runner was handing out coffees. Mervyn had just missed out again.

  Randall was on the phone. ‘Okay. Great. Look forward to it.’ He put down the receiver. ‘That was Valerie. The Gorg’s costume’s all ready. They’re sending one up now.’

  There was a frisson of anticipation. After about two minutes the Gorg strode in, brandishing a huge black pistol. It was dressed in a faux-Egyptian style, bare-chested with a huge brass belt and simple skirt fashioned from strips of golden cloth.

  ‘I like it,’ said Randall.

  ‘It’s a bit camp,’ mused Louise.

  ‘Hey, this is science fiction. Everything’s a bit camp. What do you think, Merv?’

  ‘I think it works. It’s possible. I wonder…are we straying into “unintentionally funny” territory, here?’

  ‘How do you mean, Merv?’

  ‘I mean, would people be reminded of Carry On films, you think? Or Morecambe and Wise sketches?’

  They all stared at it again.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Louise, staring at the Gorg’s foot. ‘Those things are quite old…’

  ‘But repeated an awful lot,’ said Nick.

  They all had another stare.

  ‘Maybe we should add some science-fictiony things. Shiny coloured panels or some squiggly runes or something like that,’ Ken mumbled.

  ‘That might work,’ Nick nodded. ‘It would be better than a complete redesign, if only for reasons of time.’

  Louise clicked her pen. ‘Right. What do we all think about that?’

  There were vague nods of assent around the room.

  ‘Shiny’s good,’ said Randall. ‘Not too shiny, though, don’t want to pick up the cameras in any reflection.’ He paused, thinking. Then he slapped his hand down flat on the table. ‘Okay, that’s the one. I’ll tell Valerie to make up some more.’

  The relief in the room was tangible once they realised they’d actually managed to get something done without disaster falling from the sky.

  ‘The gun’s wrong,’ said Mervyn.

  Everyone sighed.

  ‘Mervyn. Do I take it that you…?’ Nick began.

  ‘If you’re going to ask if I own the rights to the Gorgs as well then yes, I do.’

  Nick looked weary.

  ‘But I’m not just being obstructive for the sake of it. I’m just making an observation to help the programme. Is that supposed to be a space rifle? It just looks like an ordinary gun.’

  ‘Mervy’s right,’ said Randall. ‘It does.’

  They all stared at the Gorg again.

  ‘Okay,’ said Randall to the Gorg. ‘We’ve made a decision. Costume—good; gun—bad. I’ll ring the props guys. You can go back to costume now.’

  The Gorg didn’t move.

  Steel entered Randall’s voice. ‘Excuse me, buddy? Off you go. Time’s a-wasting.’

  The Gorg didn’t move.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ said Nick nervously. ‘Glyn? Is that you?’

  Then Glyn entered the room. ‘Hello my lovely boys and girls!’ He spied the Gorg in his new costume. ‘Hey that’s just… Just so Spartacastic! I love the Carry On look! He’s hairy, huge and camper than a row of gays!’

  ‘Vixens from the Void died for me today!’ the Gorg cried and aimed the gun straight at Glyn’s head.

  Everybody froze.

  ‘What?’

  The Gorg didn’t say anything else. He just pointed his gun at Glyn.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said “Vixens from the Void died for me today”,’ repeated Mervyn, helpfully.

  ‘Oh, okay, I thought he said “Vixens from the Void—formidable!” Like in the French. It’s difficult to understand you, my lovely. Your mask. We can’t hear you very well.’

  ‘Shut up or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Oh, lovely, I heard that loud and clear. Lovely enunciation.’

  The runner in the corner did something stupid. He actually started running—towards the Gorg. Perhaps being a runner he’d had it drummed into him that his life was about as important as an insect, so he decided it was worth throwing it away with a futile gesture.

  The Gorg saw him coming and slapped the gun across his head. The runner dropped to the floor, arms and legs splayed like a starfish.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said Glyn.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Randall.

  ‘Oh hell,’ said Louise.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mervyn.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ whimpered Ken. ‘This is just about pissing it for me. A piss awful shoot with Mervyn fucking Stone, and now I’m being held hostage by a pissing gonk!’

  ‘It’s a GORG!’ screamed the Gorg, aiming the gun now directly at Ken. ‘For crying out loud just get it right once! I’m a fucking GORG!’

  At that precise second, everyone knew that the Gorg was going to shoot Ken.

  He fired.

  Randall ran, stumbling for the door, but only succeeded in ending up in the line of fire. He span around to protect himself, but was too slow. The bullet tore into the shoulder of Randall’s jacket and sent a fine spray of blood along Ken’s face. Randall slumped, dragging Ken down by the dead weight of his body.

  Ken lay on the floor, stunned, then realised he was coated in blood. He screamed, twitching and convulsing, rubbing at his bloody face with his hands and then rubbing his bloody hands on his jeans.

  The man who had been shot, Randall, lay on the floor, panting, his face wiped clean of colour. His pretty tie was miraculously unscathed and it looked deeper and greener than usual against his grey suit and his white face.

  ‘Randall, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m okay.’ Randall’s voice was strained. ‘It just grazed my shoulder. I think it looks worse than it is.’

  Nick was uncharacteristically pugnacious. He got to his feet, the barrel of the Gorg’s gun pointing directly at his chest. ‘Did you see what you just did there? Do you realise what that could do to our schedule? What the hell do you want?’

  The Gorg pulled up his mask a little so his mouth was unimpeded by the latex.

  ‘Mervyn Stone…stand up.’

  Mervyn looked up, surprised at hearing his name, and then slowly and clumsily he got to his feet.

  The gun moved to Mervyn’s head.

  ‘This thing is all bollocks,’ said the Gorg. ‘I got a job as an extra because I loved Vixens from the Void and everything I’ve seen since I’ve been here tells me this is going to be a load of old bollocks. A complete insult to the subjects of Vixos.’

  It’s a mad fan, thought Mervyn. Of course it is.

  ‘I have told the world of the disaster that is befalling Vixens from the Void. I have posted videos and facts designed to make the BBC—or anyone—do something about it. And it has come to naught. I have only one option left to me…’ He swung the gun to cover Mervyn. ‘Mervyn Stone. You are the guardian of classic Vixens from the Void. You can save us before this farce goes on any longer.’ He raised the gun so it was aimed s
quarely at Mervyn’s forehead. ‘You are going to write a proper Vixens from the Void script for them to film. And if you don’t, I will shoot you and everyone here.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘No,’ said Mervyn.

  ‘What did you just say?’ hissed the Gorg.

  Yes, what did I just say just then? thought Mervyn. I could have sworn I just said ‘No’. ‘I mean “no”,’ he repeated. ‘That is to say, I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can. You’re Mervyn Stone.’

  ‘I really can’t. I’ve got writer’s block. I can’t write a word. Haven’t done any writing for years.’

  ‘But… You can try… Can’t you?’

  ‘I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. Writer’s block is a serious condition. Why do you think I’m not writing this new episode?’

  ‘Well, I did wonder…’

  ‘There’s no other possible explanation, is there?’

  ‘I suppose not… I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Stone.’

  The Gorg believed it. As improbable as it sounded, he believed it. The idea that Mervyn might be seen as too old or unfashionable to write for modern television didn’t occur to him. In the fan’s-eye view of television, there were actors, writers and directors who’d worked on Vixens from the Void…and then there were the rest. Mervyn was the obvious choice to write the new pilot because there was NO ONE ELSE in television who could do it. And OF COURSE there was only one possible explanation for Mervyn not writing the new pilot. He’d refused because he’d got writer’s block. That was the ONLY explanation.

  ‘Right…’ The Gorg seemed to deflate slightly, then he shrugged. ‘So if you can’t write the episode, there’s only one way to stop this.’ He raised his gun until its line of fire nestled between Glyn’s eyes. ‘I’ll have to kill you, Mr Trelawney…’

  Oh dear. That was unexpected.

  ‘…So they’ll be forced to find a better writer. Someone who worked on the show. Someone like Andrew Jamieson or Stephen Dickson-Bailey.’

  Mervyn made a huge effort to make his voice sound casual. ‘Someone who worked on the show? Do you know who Glyn is?’

  ‘He’s some kind of writer, who writes about girls doing sex with each other.’

  ‘Oh that’s just what he’s famous for. That’s how the media pigeonhole him. Why do you think he’s here writing the pilot for the new series?’

  The Gorg shook its head vigorously, as if trying to dislodge something. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s because he wrote for the original series, of course!’

  Glyn gave Mervyn an outraged look. Mervyn knew, in that split second, had Glyn been able to make a choice between being called a writer on the old Vixens from the Void and getting a bullet between the eyes, he’d go for the extra eye-socket every time.

  The Gorg looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know his name. He’s not been on any credits.’

  No you don’t. Think, Mervyn, think. Find a story in that sluggish old head of yours.

  ‘Well of course you haven’t. Of course you haven’t seen his name. And do you know? There’s a very good reason for that.’

  ‘Yes? What reason?’

  ‘Well, I’ll let you into a little secret. Do you remember the episode ‘Wings of the Warlock’? By Gareth Lyons?’

  ‘Serial 7G? Yes I know it.’

  ‘Glyn wrote that episode.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I…thought that was you, under a pseudonym.’

  The Gorg was right. It was an emergency episode written in an hysterical blur by Mervyn because a writer had suddenly found himself unavailable to finish a script (he’d been used as a drugs mule and ended up in a jail in Honduras). ‘Gareth Lyons’ was a fake name, put together using Mervyn’s uncle’s first name and his mother’s maiden name. ‘Oh that’s not me,’ he said. ‘What nonsense. I didn’t write it. If you just look a little closer, “Gareth Lyons” is an anagram of “Glyn Trelawney”.’

  ‘Oh. Oh yeah! So it is.’

  Phew. Thank God he didn’t ask him to spell it or write it down.

  The Gorg peered at Glyn. ‘I liked that episode. Did you write that?’

  Glyn’s survival instincts bobbed to the surface. His face twisted into a grisly parody of a smile. ‘Yeah, that’s right. That was me, my lovely. Just a little bit of nonsense I knocked off in an afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t do that!’ the Gorg snarled. ‘I hate that. I hate the way some of you who worked on the series dismiss what you did, like it was rubbish. Like it was the worst job you ever had. It was the best thing you did, and you know it.’

  ‘He’s a writer,’ soothed Mervyn. ‘Writers are modest people. They can’t help but be self-deprecating about their work. That’s why Glyn used a pseudonym. He hates the adoration. It doesn’t mean to say he’s not very, very proud of it.’

  ‘Okay. I know that.’ He waggled the gun at Glyn. ‘Just try, okay? Just stop being so bloody modest.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Glyn solemnly, the irony of the moment whizzing over his enormous head.

  ‘Right, I’ve come to a decision,’ said the Gorg, still waving the gun at Glyn. ‘You’re going to write the Vixens pilot again, and this time you’re going to do it properly. And I’m going to watch you to make sure you do it properly.’

  It was Glyn’s turn to say something mad. ‘I need coffee. I can’t work without coffee.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everyone knows that, my lovely. It’s on my Wikipedia entry.’

  Everyone looked tense. They didn’t know what the Gorg was going to do next. The Gorg didn’t know what the Gorg was going to do next. It seemed to be thinking hard.

  ‘Fine. Get coffee,’ it said.

  ‘There’s no coffee in the building,’ said Nick. ‘We send out for it.’

  ‘Okay, go and send out for it.’

  Glyn sighed. ‘You’ve just knocked the runner unconscious, lovely. How on Earth can we get coffee now?’

  The Gorg thought hard. ‘We could get it delivered.’

  Glyn barked a mirthless laugh. ‘No one delivers coffee in this part of the country, my lovely. This place is a cultural wasteland.’

  Nick piped up. ‘The Oo-ar Bar does. If you order food.’

  ‘But does anyone want food?’

  ‘I could go for a pastini,’ said Louise

  ‘Actually, I’d like a clotted creamoccino,’ said Glyn.

  ‘Well I’d like a cider smoothie,’ said Nick.

  ‘That’s not food,’ Glyn replied.

  ‘I’d still like one, and if you’re getting a clotted creamoccino, then I want a cider smoothie.’

  The Gorg snapped. ‘Shut up! One pastini and one plain coffee. That’s it, all right?’ He picked up the phone on the table.

  ‘That’s just an internal phone,’ said Mervyn. ‘If you need an outside line you have to go into an office.’

  The Gorg glared at him but couldn’t prove Mervyn was lying. ‘Okaay…’ he said, subconsciously mimicking Ken Roche. ‘I’m going into that office. I can see everyone from the door, so don’t get any ideas.’

  ‘I’m not an ideas person,’ said Louise, instinctively.

  The Gorg jabbed his gun in Glyn’s direction, and then twitched the barrel to the glass-panelled office adjoining the meeting room. ‘You come with me to that office. You’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Okay my lovely, but will I need coffee very soon.’

  Glyn was frog-marched into the office and sat at a desk. The Gorg perched on the corner of the desk and stared intently at him.

  ‘Okay, start writing—and don’t try anything funny. No farting spaceships. No musical numbers. No silly references to Ant and Dec.’

  Glyn started to write, reluctantly at first, typing one grudging keystroke at a time, but then faster, his fingers pitter-pattering across the keyboard. Mervyn looked at the Gorg. It was on the phone, running through the order with the Oo-ar bar.

  ‘I hope the Gorg has the exact mon
ey,’ babbled Nick. ‘Those delivery people get very irate if you give them a £20 note.’

  ‘I think we have a chance,’ hissed Mervyn. ‘Look, the door to the office isn’t completely open. My guess is he can only see that corner of the room. If one of us stays in plain sight the rest of us might be able to creep out.’

  ‘But he’s right next to the door. He’s bound to see us.’

  ‘We’re not going out of the door. We’re going out of the window.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s builders’ scaffolding all the way to the corner. If we get outside we may have a chance to go along the outside of the building and get down on one of the ladders,’ whispered Mervyn.

  ‘Do you know what floor we’re on? We’re on the fifth floor!’ snapped Nick, answering his own question for reasons of time.

  ‘I know we’re on the fifth floor. But it’s our only hope. It’s only a matter of time before Glyn writes something that the Gorg finds unacceptably cheesy and does something we’ll all regret.’

  ‘What about Glyn? We can’t leave him?’ Louise posed it as a question rather than a statement, hoping that someone else would say ‘Yes we can leave him’ and absolving her of any responsibility.

  Mervyn obliged her. ‘The only way we can save Glyn is by raising the alarm.’ He snaked over to where the runner lay, tapping the young man’s cheeks lightly but firmly. The runner’s left eye slowly opened.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Hrrr.’

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Hrrrrr.’

  ‘Do you know your name?’

  ‘Toby. ‘s Toby.’

  Mervyn looked up. ‘He says his name’s Toby.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So? Is that his name?’

  Louise shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It might be…’ said Nick

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Randall

  ‘Does anyone know this man’s name so we can verify he knows who he is and doesn’t have concussion?’

  There was a symphony of shrugs and confused faces.

  Mervyn gave up. ‘Okay Toby, well done. Can you get up? Can you walk?’

  The runner staggered to his feet.

  Mervyn went to the window and gently pulled it open. ‘Okay. Nick, stay sitting near the doorway so he doesn’t see an empty room and get suspicious.’