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

by Nev Fountain

  ‘But you can’t leave me!’ Nick whimpered.

  ‘Not so loud!’

  ‘But you can’t leave me!’ he hissed.

  ‘We’re not leaving you. You’re just going to wait until the last possible minute and then you can make a move and join us. Just act like you’re having a conversation with us, like we’re in the room.’

  ‘But why can’t the runner stay?’

  ‘Because that’s who he would expect to stay behind.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘Oh God… Nick…’ sighed Louise.

  ‘I still don’t see why it has to be me!’

  ‘Because you’re good at talking and pretending that people are listening to you,’ she snapped.

  ‘Oh thank you for that, you cow.’

  ‘Glyn needs you, Nick,’ said Mervyn simply.

  That did the trick. Nick nodded his head and slouched in the chair, in plain view of the Gorg.

  ‘Okay, be quiet, all of you,’ Randall pulled himself up, clutching his shoulder. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Mervyn looped his leg over the window sill and looked down. The planks on the scaffolding were about a foot wide. Oh dear. Oh bugger. He wasn’t good with heights. He hoped he wasn’t going to lose control of his bowels, especially with no underwear to contain the fall-out. The wind charged up his trouser leg and caused his balls to shrivel.

  ‘Come on!’ He gestured to Louise, who climbed on to the window sill. He edged along to give her the room to get on to the scaffolding. She didn’t move.

  ‘Take my hand,’ said Mervyn.

  ‘Oh, God!’ she wailed. ‘I get vertigo!’

  ‘Don’t look down. Just look straight into my eyes.’

  Louise looked straight into Mervyn’s eyes for the first time ever, and Mervyn saw her fear. Not just fear of being five storeys up on a tiny length of plank; fear of not knowing what she was doing. Fear of being found out.

  ‘You’re going to be fine,’ said Mervyn.

  ‘No I’m not!’ she hissed.

  ‘You’re going to be fine Louise. Listen to me. You’re going to be just fine. And do you know why? Because you’re a TV executive. You’re telly management. You will always survive, you hear me? If you get shot, you will survive. If you fall, you will survive. You can walk away from any appalling accident, any disaster, any epic tragedy because you’re a bloody TV executive and that’s what you bloody well do!’

  She seemed to take strength from the idea, and grabbed his hand. She started to inch forward again. Mervyn saw Ken stumble on to the scaffolding and then Randall emerged, his face creased with pain. Then Toby—if that was his name—climbed on to the ledge and followed Louise. Then, finally, Nick’s head popped out of the window and brought up the rear.

  We’re nearly there, thought Mervyn. We’re going to get through this.

  He was nearly at the corner of the building. He was groping along the wall, feeling for a large vertical pole to anchor his body. He couldn’t find anything but rough brickwork. Then he touched something large and soft.

  ‘Go away Mervyn,’ said a familiar voice.

  He prised his eyes from Louise and slowly turned his head.

  There was Graham Goldingay, standing on the ledge, chained to the scaffolding. He was wearing a tent-sized T-shirt with ‘GLYN MUST GO’ printed on it. A megaphone was embedded in his warty fist. ‘This is my protest. You can’t stop me.’

  ‘Graham, get off the bloody ledge! We need to get past!’

  ‘You’re not getting rid of me like that.’ He aimed his mouth into his megaphone and blared his words to the world below. ‘I want concrete assurances that Glyn Trelawney be removed from the relaunch of Vixens from the Void, or I, Graham Goldingay, will jump!’

  Mervyn looked down. A few people were gathering on the pavement below, casting their eyes upwards and watching the show. They heard Graham talk about jumping and backed away from the pavement. Well away. That was a lot of man to fall out of the sky.

  ‘Graham, there is a mad Gorg with a gun in there. He has already shot one person and has threatened to kill more.’

  ‘That doesn’t happen in my copy. What page of the script is that? Is that a rewrite?’ Graham sounded hopeful.

  ‘This is real life, Graham. Remember that? Now get out of the fucking way!’

  The Gorg’s head poked out of the window. ‘Where the bloody hell are you lot going? Come back here! Come back here now or I shoot Glyn Trelawney!’

  ‘Don’t shoot Glyn Trelawney you idiot!’ yelled Graham. ‘You’ll make him a martyr! They’ll be even more certain to film his rotten script if he dies!’

  The Gorg did a double-take.

  ‘What are you doing out there, Graham?’

  ‘What are you doing in there?’ said Graham.

  ‘I’m holding hostages. I’m making a protest about the new Vixens from the Void.’

  ‘With a gun?’

  ‘Of course with a gun!’

  ‘Are you mad? It’s just a television show!’ said Graham—probably for the first time in his life. ‘Why don’t you protest like me? I’ve got more T-shirts.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I won’t intrude. I’m forcing Glyn Trelawney to write a proper episode of Vixens from the Void.’

  ‘That’s a terrible idea. You should have got Mervyn Stone to write it.’

  ‘That was my original idea, actually,’ the Gorg grew petulant. ‘But he’s got writer’s block.’

  Graham frowned. ‘Your voice sounds familiar.’

  The Gorg froze. ‘No it doesn’t.’

  ‘I know that voice! I was watching the video of ConVix 12 just the other week. That voice interviewed Suzy Lu on the main stage. It was one of the worst interviews in fandom’s history.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault no one could understand what she was saying!’

  ‘It is you! Darren Cardew!’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Yes it is you. What are you doing protesting? I distinctly recall that you’re in favour of the reboot.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. I remember your posting on Voices from the Void last year. You were dismissing anybody with reservations, calling them “moaners” and said they were “living in the past”.’

  ‘You’re distorting my postings. The main point I made was: If other forum-frequenters are negative whenever any new programme is announced then nothing will ever get made.’

  ‘That’s a straw man argument and you know it.’

  ‘No it’s not! “Wait and see” is a perfectly reasonable position to take.’

  ‘That’s what they said about Hitler.’

  ‘Godwins! Godwins! You mentioned the Nazis! You lose!’

  ‘Ha! You always invoke Godwin’s Law when you’ve got no argument! The fact remains: you pissed in those collectable Medula knickers you wear when Glyn Trelawney was announced as show-runner.’

  ‘I did not! I was open-minded and relatively positive about the possibility of a relaunch with Trelawney at the helm, and now, in the light of the evidence, I have taken the stance you see now.’

  ‘You squeed!’

  ‘I did not squee!’

  Graham huffed. ‘I can provide documentary evidence.’

  ‘Oh yes, we know all about your “documentary evidence”; your programme guides are a tissue of lies and inaccuracies.’

  ‘How dare you, you…you…insect! Come here and say that.’

  ‘Right! You lot on the scaffolding. Come back in here!’ Admitting defeat, the production team reluctantly edged back along the planks and clambered in through the window, bottom first, expecting dire reprisals for their rebellion. They needn’t have worried; the Gorg, or Darren as he was apparently called, leapt out of the window and climbed along the ledge.

  ‘Watch it!’ protested Mervyn. He was the last to come back inside and was nearly edged off the building as Darren shoved past.

  ‘Out of my way!’

  Glyn greeted them as they came back inside.
‘What’s going on? Where’s the Gorg gone? I’ve finished the first three scenes already.’

  ‘I don’t think the Gorg has any time to read your first draft,’ drawled Mervyn. ‘He’s in conference outside the window.’

  ‘Oh.’ Glyn almost sounded disappointed.

  They watched as the Gorg crawled along to Graham, straightened up and wagged a hairy finger in his face. ‘Your accounts of the production meetings are spurious and your documentary about the episode The Burning Time was a bigger work of fiction than your infamous “interview” with Tara Miles in Into the Void 15.’

  ‘At least I get to speak to the stars, when did you last have anyone of note in those events you hold in Coventry? You’ll be holding them in the hotel lift next year if your attendances get any smaller.’

  ‘What!’ the Gorg shouted back at his long-disappeared hostages: ‘Hold me back someone! Hold me back!’

  ‘There’s no one to hold you back, Darren. Your hostages have escaped and are no doubt ringing the police as we speak. Your so-called “siege” was as badly organised as your so-called “conventions”.’

  ‘Right! That’s it, Goldingay. You’re retconned, mister! You’re in for a serious reboot!’ They grappled with each other on the side of building; a cheap remake of King Kong vs. Godzilla. The Gorg’s hairy fist embedded itself in Graham’s vast stomach, disappearing up to the wrist. Graham gasped and grabbed at a length of loose pipe. He swung the pipe at the Gorg, but missed, hitting the window and cracking it. The Gorg grabbed Graham around the waist and tried to give him a bear hug.

  Graham tried to turn, they overbalanced, and then they both fell off the ledge with a scream. They hung there, dangling by Graham’s handcuffs for a few endless seconds, and then the chain snapped and they pitched off the building with a scream…

  And into the firemen’s net that had just been pulled out below them. The net bulged with the force of catching Graham, but the firemen held fast.

  Still swapping insults, statistics and tiny historical footnotes from the world of Vixens, the two superfans were retrieved by the Cornish police and bundled into a car.

  *

  Mervyn went with Randall to the hospital. He was swaddled in a blanket, pale and suffering from shock, but he seemed okay.

  ‘Well, you were right about Ken, and you were right about Graham. I should listen to my personal morale-booster more often, right?’ Randall gave a weak smile. ‘How cursed am I, Merv? Crappy director, crazy writer, mad fans holding the show to ransom, dickish bosses who worry about non-existent dicks, and now I get myself shot into the bargain. This is a major setback, Merv, I don’t mind admitting it.’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose…’

  ‘No suppose about it. I’m one Gorg short.’ Randall spluttered with hysterical laughter, interspersed with huge hacking coughs. The ambulance siren drowned out his insane giggles, but only just.

  Mervyn wondered if the stress of it all had finally gotten to Randall.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Mervyn took a bus back to Truro city centre from the hospital in a mad dash to find some underpants. His quest was in vain—by the time he got there the shops were closed again. Mervyn dug his hands in his pockets and moved his penis to a more comfortable position for the 93rd time.

  He wandered over to the Cornish Business Village with the hope of cadging a lift home. There was a Points West van parked outside; it had deigned to travel down from Bristol and a reporter was talking to a camera, gesticulating at the scaffolding as he did so. The story would hit the region tonight, and it had enough entertainment value to reach the national media by the morning, or at the very latest the day after.

  Internet or no internet, thought Mervyn, the world will now know how much of a fiasco this production has become.

  There was nobody left except the costume department, frantically sewing Gorg kilts together. Valerie pointed him in the direction of a nearby pub, where the senior members of the production team were coping with delayed shock via the medium of alcohol. Mervyn felt like a stiff drink too, and followed Valerie’s directions.

  Nick was there with Louise. Ken too. They were huddled together, sipping their drinks and looking ashen like they were guests at their first science-fiction convention.

  Mervyn cleared his throat. ‘Hello everybody. How are we all?’

  ‘I’m fine. Nothing wrong with me,’ said Louise bullishly. ‘They build us hardy down here.’

  ‘You’re not Cornish, Louise,’ snapped Nick. He still looked hurt from being forced to act as decoy.

  ‘I know I’m not, but I’ve been down here three months. I’m practically accepted as native now,’ she downed her cider and allowed a belch to erupt from her mouth, as if to emphasise the point. ‘Anyway, I’ll bet money my ancestors came from here. I bet I have true Cornish blood pulsing inside me.’

  ‘How’s Randall?’ asked Nick.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Mervyn. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s American. They get shot all the time. It’s like having a bit of a sniffle with them.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ Louise scowled.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He sat down, bracing himself, ready to be glared at by Ken, but Ken didn’t even acknowledge him. He looked like one of the episodes he’d directed for Vixens, thought Mervyn. Sort of half-finished. Queasy. Badly lit. A sickly mixture of shame and resignation that this was as good as it was going to get.

  ‘Are you okay, Ken?’

  Ken didn’t respond.

  ‘Ken?’

  He still said nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ sighed Louise. ‘He’s been like this all afternoon.’

  ‘I looked death in the face today,’ droned Ken. ‘I stared into the face of death…and it was the face of a bloody gonk.’ No one corrected him this time. ‘It was the biggest moment of my shitty life, and it was death. I looked at the end of that gun pointing straight at my face…’ he moaned. ‘It was like what they said, everything flooded back, like sewage. My shitty, shitty life sloshed before my eyes, like effluent in a waste pipe. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.’ He staggered to his feet and lurched away.

  Louise harrumphed unsympathetically. ‘It’s a bit late for him to not wish it on anyone. I have seen parts of his life flash before me—when he sent the video of his holiday in Luxor to BBC Bristol instead of his showreel. I was the producer who had to watch the whole bloody thing, to make sure it wasn’t some kind of clever naturalistic play. Two bloody hours of him wandering around the temple of Karnak, buying wooden camels and complaining about the heat. Never again.’

  Nick smiled weakly. ‘Oh, you got his holiday tape? My mate at Sky got sent his wedding video. He’d taped over the vows with twenty minutes of him screaming “No!” on a hill painted blue. That is, he was painted blue, not the hill.’

  ‘Is Ken okay?’ Mervyn asked, looking at the exit.

  ‘Not really. Post-traumatic stress, I reckon.’

  Mervyn sniffed Ken’s drink. ‘Oh. It’s water.’

  ‘He’s teetotal. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘He mentioned he was clean, but I didn’t know what he meant by it. I thought he was just off the drugs.’ Mervyn got to his feet. ‘Perhaps we should go and see if he’s all right.’ Louise and Nick both looked at him.

  ‘Okaay…’ they both said, unconsciously echoing the absent director. But they didn’t move. Mervyn left the pub without them.

  Outside, it was cold and dark, and Ken was nowhere to be seen. ‘Ken?’ Mervyn hissed. ‘Are you out there? Are you all right?’

  He was feeling utterly ridiculous. Why was he out here? He’d warned them all about Ken! He’d warned them about Graham, too. And now he was the one outside in a freezing car park, cleaning up the mess. How could that be? He supposed that there were two types of people in the world; the type of person who goes out into a freezing pub car park to find a shell-shocked maniac, and the other type of person; the type who lets them.

  ‘Ken? Are you all ri
ght?’

  No one about.

  ‘There’s blood on my hands, Mervyn.’

  Ken’s voice was terrifyingly near. Mervyn screamed.

  Ken was less than three feet from him. He was crouching in the beer garden like a tasteless ornament. He had a pub umbrella over his shoulder, holding it as if he were a soldier on a parade ground.

  ‘I saw the blood on my hands. I stared at my hands and saw the blood on my hands.’

  ‘That was Randall’s blood, Ken.’

  ‘I did it. That’s why the blood was on my hands.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything to Randall. It was the Gorg.’

  Ken laughed, a tiny girlish giggle, and shook his head. ‘No, not him. I saw her fly through the air. Like Mary Poppins. She had an umbrella like this, and she danced in front of me, and her little dog laughed to see such fun.’ He walked around in a wide circle, and pointed the umbrella at Mervyn ‘You don’t know how lucky you were, Mervyn,’ he said sadly. ‘I stared death in the face today, and I walked away. I know how lucky I am. But you’ve done it three times, and you didn’t even know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One day you will find out how lucky you were.’

  ‘Ken!’

  Ken ran off into the night, hopping over walls and skipping along the pavement, stabbing his umbrella into the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. ‘Blood on my hands!’ he screamed into the night.

  Three times? I faced death three times? Mervyn felt sick to his stomach. At last he knew the truth.

  It was Ken.

  Ken was the one who’d been trying to kill him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Faced with the brutal truth of his no-longer mystery assailant, all of Mervyn’s bravado dribbled out of him. His legs forgot how to keep him upright, although somehow he just managed to stagger back into the pub and over to his barstool by grabbing the backs of chairs and tables. He dimly heard an ‘Oi!’ as he fumbled past and nudged someone’s pint.

  ‘Where’s Ken?’ asked Louise.

  ‘I don’t think Ken’s coming back.’