by Nev Fountain
‘Hello, hello, hello!’ Glyn bounced in, clutching his own script. ‘Sorry to be a pain in the arse, my lovelies, but this script is turning into something really special. Dull warty chrysalis to sexy butterfly in one bound.’
Mervyn wondered how long Glyn had been behind the door, listening to Louise’s protests, waiting to make his entrance.
They buried their noses in the script, flicking through it and finding the revisions, which were in a bold font. The changes seemed very sensible, beefing up Holly’s part because it turned out she could act, and paring down Gemma’s because it turned out she couldn’t. Mervyn noted wryly that the scene inside the airless spaceship was now much clearer, and made it apparent that Medula’s spacesuit was also out of oxygen. Part of his emergency rewrite was still in there, but in an edited form. Everything after the word ‘cellulite’ was removed. He felt slightly better about his unwarranted interference.
Ken obviously didn’t think the changes were very sensible. He was looking at his old script, then the new one, then the old one again. ‘This bit’s different. This bit’s different. What the fuck? What’s this scene?’
After about an hour Randall, Nick and Louise were twitching the pages on their scripts, which meant it was time for a ten-minute fag break. They pulled cigarette packets out of their bags and headed for the lift. Mervyn wasn’t sure where Glyn or Ken had gone. The runners stopped off in the Oo-ar Bar, but Mervyn didn’t feel like being sociable. He stayed in the room, pacing round the table.
Louise had left her pills behind. He picked them up. He knew what they were; he’d taken them once. Anti-depressants, and very powerful ones at that. He wasn’t surprised. Louise’s hands had been shaking ever since day three. He carried on round the table, flicking through the scripts. Glyn had left his behind, and he couldn’t resist having a peek.
He didn’t expect to find what he found. On a dead page, about halfway through, Glyn had written his name. He had written ‘Mervyn’. And then he had written it again. And again. And again. He counted about 200 versions of his name on the page, some in capital letters, some in italics, some in huge fat cartoon lettering.
In the middle of the page, across the script was the word: ‘NO!’ written in huge letters about eight inches high, scribbled so intensely it had made huge grooves in the paper. Then… ‘HE CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!’ was written on the bottom. Mervyn wondered if Ken was the only person who wished him harm. He flicked through Glyn’s script, looking for more evidence.
On page 103, the page they were reading when they broke for smokes, there were the words ‘Sorry Nick’.
Something flashed by the window, then a second later there was a crash, and a tinkle—
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP—and a car alarm blared in pain.
Mervyn rushed to the window and looked down. There, splayed on the wreckage of a car, was Nick.
Mervyn stared, stunned. People were already standing round the car, like maggots collecting around a piece of rotting meat. Nick stared back up at him, mouth open, as if to say ‘Watch that last step, Merv, it’s a killer.’
Some of the people clustering around the car looked up at Mervyn and he instinctively stepped back, as though he’d done something wrong by being in the building.
More people rushed to the car from inside the building. There was an animated conversation—‘Has anyone called 999?’—‘I thought someone would have’– ‘I haven’t…’—three of them fished out their mobile phones like cowboys going for their guns. They were all very keen to make the call; probably because it was the only phone number that didn’t need a signal.
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP—and the bloody car alarm kept going.
Louise rushed in, then Randall. They ran to join Mervyn at the window.
‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’
‘It’s Nick.’
‘No way.’
‘No, it can’t be.’
‘Oh hell, it is. It’s Nick.’
‘He was on the roof. He must have…’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Oh my God. No!’ shrieked Louise. ‘This show is cursed! It’s bloody cursed! We have to stop it right now!’
Glyn sauntered in. ‘What’s going on, my lovelies?’
‘It’s Nick,’ said Mervyn. ‘He’s fallen off the roof. I’m sorry Glyn. He’s dead.’
Glyn moved to the window. He didn’t run; he practically strolled. He leaned on the window, resting his chin on the sill like a boy contemplating spitting on the pavement.
‘My God…’ he breathed.
Glyn’s brow furrowed. Angry more than horrified. Mervyn took the expression to mean ‘How dare he die without my permission?’
‘He was with us on the roof having a fag,’ Randall said. ‘He was right behind us.’
‘He had his extra fag,’ said Louise. ‘He needed his extra fag.’
Ken came in. ‘What’s going on?’
‘He should have used the stairs,’ said Glyn softly, ‘but you know Nick, always looking for ways to save time.’
Everyone looked at Glyn with their mouths open. Mervyn thought people only did that in cartoons and sitcoms, but here they all were, gaping at Glyn. Glyn didn’t seem to notice.
‘What’s happened?’ said Ken. He ran to the window. Mervyn watched his shoulders sag as he saw the chaos beneath.
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP- WHU-
The car alarm was put out of everyone’s misery. In the blessed silence that followed, Mervyn could easily hear Ken’s muttered words.
‘Oh pissing, shitting hell,’ said Ken. ‘More blood. More blood.’
*
The rest of the day went by in a blur. The Cornish police came. They didn’t lick their pencils. They didn’t come on bicycles. They drove cars and they took statements. Very detailed statements.
They questioned everyone, the smokers in particular, who had been the last to see Nick alive. Nick always needed his extra fag, Randall told them. He always hung back for an extra five minutes, Louise informed them. It must have been a tragic accident, they both opined.
The police left, but not before cordoning off the roof with bright yellow tape. They obviously wouldn’t finish their inquiries any time soon.
Nick’s body was levered out of the roof of the dented Toyota very quickly and whisked away to where dead bodies go. The problem was that it took considerably longer to find a breakdown truck to take away the car. It was a good hour before a rusty pick-up truck growled along the street to drag it away, by which time Mervyn had looked out of the window at least half a dozen times to check it was still there, to see if it was real. Nick’s imprint was still in its roof, like the remnant of a cartoon character who had done one crazy stunt too many.
Mervyn didn’t even ask Randall about confronting Ken. It just wasn’t the right time.
Everybody went home. So did Mervyn.
He sat on his bed, tried to think, tried to move. He couldn’t do anything. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His mind gradually searched for something practical to do.
Maggie. He could ring Maggie and see how she was. He could ask her about her mother. There must be some misunderstanding about that. It was the wrong nursing home; must have been.
He pulled out his phone. No signal. Of course. He risked an extortionate room service bill and used the phone by his bed. He waited on the line for ages, edging past receptionists and crawling through switchboards before his call finally arrived at its destination.
‘Mervyn?’
‘Maggie, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. What happened to me? The last thing I remember was, we were, you know…’
‘You got hit on the head by a badger. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine, really. The nurses seem to be smiling at me in very odd ways, but apart from that, I’m comfortable. A what? A badger?’
‘Yes. I’ll explain later. Look. I went to your mother’s nursing home, to let them know you were hur
t but there seems to have been a misunderstanding. They’d never heard of her. Was it the Millpond Retirement Cottages? It was, wasn’t it?’
‘You…what?’
‘I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you. I wanted to call you earlier, but it’s been a hellish day. Nick, our producer, has been killed. He fell off the roof of the building. They don’t know if it was an accident or suicide or, you know… And guess what else? I found out who was trying to kill me…’
Mervyn realised there was silence on the other line. No ‘What?’ or ‘I don’t believe it’ or ‘My God.’
Just silence.
‘Maggie?’
The line had gone dead.
He called back, couldn’t get through. He tried again, pleaded with the receptionists, frantic she’d had a relapse or a brain haemorrhage, begged them to check on her. Finally, a nurse came to the phone with an answer.
Maggie had got dressed and checked out a bare few minutes ago.
She was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
>CLICK<
Oh my God. I’ve killed him. I’ve killed Nick.
[SIGH]
Shit. What was I thinking? What have I shitting well done?
I didn’t mean to do this. I know he swanned about, telling me what to do, trying to direct my shots for me, but I didn’t mean him any harm.
[SIGH]
I hate Mervyn and I hate Vixens and I hate Styrax but I didn’t hate him. I saw him sitting there, and I just pushed him. It was just an impulse. I was so frustrated about not killing Mervyn. It was an impulse. Over he went…
[SIGH]
…and I finally came to my senses. I realised. I’ve been trying to kill someone! And I was so annoyed about NOT killing them I went and killed somebody else!
I have a problem.
Okaay…
I know it’s the coke. It’s the coke that did this. I’m sick. I’ve got to sort this problem out, I’ve got to end this right now.
>CLICK<
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
There was another emergency meeting scheduled, to discuss the events of the last emergency meeting. This time, the day’s filming had been cancelled.
‘Okay everyone,’ Randall said to the subdued collection of people before him; this time, they were joined by Bryony, Valerie and the runners, and even two of the Wagz had made an appearance. The only ones not there, and conspicuous by their absence, were Ken and Glyn.
‘I’m sure we’re all shocked and distressed by Nick’s death,’ said Randall. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t stop to mourn him. We have a show to finish, and I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted.’ Mervyn was sure that Nick wouldn’t have given a toss either way but he probably would have liked to have had a few days mourning on his behalf—although he didn’t think it wise to raise that now. Randall continued. ‘Louise is now series producer as well as being actual producer from this moment on, and Bryony is to take over full-time as our director.’
A murmur passed round the group—part surprise, part excitement but mostly relief as they slowly realised what he was saying; they were finally going to be free of Ken Roche.
‘Sorry?’ said Louise, exasperated, out of the loop again.
‘What’s happened to Ken?’ said Gemma. ‘I liked him. He was sweet.’ Everyone looked disbelievingly at her.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Holly. ‘She loves hopeless cases. She goes out with second division footballers.’
Gemma looked shocked, then she punched Holly playfully on the shoulder, and everyone gave a relieved laugh. The tension in the room seeped away.
‘Ken is taking a short sabbatical,’ said Randall evenly, giving Mervyn a quick conspiratorial glance. ‘I’m sure we all hope Ken gets some much-needed rest, and wish him a speedy return to our happy band. I was hoping to talk to him this morning. Has anyone seen him today?’ Everyone shook their heads. ‘Okay. I should speak with him real soon. I’ll drive over to his B&B right now. Mervyn, would you like to accompany me?’
All heads turned to Mervyn, intrigued. What had Mervyn to do with Ken’s removal from the programme? Mervyn felt a tiny glow of power as the Wagz stared at him with slight awe.
‘Thank you, Randall, I’d like that very much.’
*
They took a runner, the female one with the purple hair, as a witness, in case there was any unpleasantness.
‘I want to make it clear that I’m just giving Ken some much-needed leave—on full pay. That’s the official line. He’s not being sacked, and we’re not mentioning anything about incompetence or attempted murders or any shit like that,’ barked Randall as he drove along the tiny roads. ‘It’s expensive, but not as messy as a lawsuit for wrongful dismissal or slander.’ Mervyn nodded reluctantly. He desperately wanted to confront Ken, but he owed it to the show (and his ample fee) to play it the way Randall wanted.
The 4x4 glided into the B&B’s drive. The tiny saucer above Randall’s head bleeped and they listened to an angry voicemail.
‘Randall this is Louise, ring me now and explain to me what’s happening to Ken,’ she grated. ‘Ring me RIGHT NOW or I quit. And you won’t find any exec down here stupid enough to take my place.’
Randall harrumphed. ‘I’m gonna have to call her back. You two guys head on in and check if he’s still in bed.’
Ken’s B&B was much nicer than Mervyn’s. There was waitress service for one thing, and the waitresses wore frilly aprons and stockings. Mervyn liked frilly aprons and stockings. The nice old lady who ran the B&B hadn’t seen Ken. ‘But it is only nine o’clock—still very early for most of my residents.’
‘He should have been at a meeting an hour ago. So you can understand we’re quite worried,’ said the runner.
‘Hmm. He’s probably dead, then.’
‘I’m sure he’s okay,’ said Mervyn, shocked.
‘Do you think so? That would be a first.’ The nice old lady sighed. ‘Every time someone calls for a resident who hasn’t turned up for a meeting, I usually find they’ve popped off in the night. The undertakers make the beds here more often than the chambermaids.’
‘How very interesting,’ said Mervyn, squeezing out the minimum of politeness.
‘Well anyway. Not to worry. I can soon check. I have my special key right here. I call it my “skeleton” key, on account of every time I use it…’
‘I get the idea.’
They reached Ken’s room. But they didn’t need the key. It was open.
‘What are you doing in there?’ said Mervyn.
Glyn was inside the room. He spun round, guiltily. ‘Ah, hello, Mervyn my lovely… And you, my purple-headed beauty… Now I know this looks a bit odd, but don’t be shocked and don’t jump to any conclusions…’
‘Oh God, oh fuck, oh God!’ shrieked the runner.
About two feet from Glyn was Ken. He was splayed across the duvet cover, feet on the headboard, head dangling off the bottom of the bed. The blood had settled inside his face, giving it a ruddy complexion. He would have just looked like a drunk sleeping it off were it not for the yellow eyes bulging sightlessly out of their sockets and the large syringe sticking grotesquely out of his arm.
‘I knew he’d be dead,’ sighed the nice old lady.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The runner couldn’t cope. She was incredibly young and to her death was still a fantasy concept that only happened to people who were evil. She stared at Ken, clutching her purple hair and going ‘Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh God,’ over and over again like a sample in a dance track.
Mervyn took charge. He grabbed the runner by the shoulders. ‘Go back to Randall. Tell him what’s happened.’
She staggered off. Mervyn could still hear ‘Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh God,’ as she disappeared down the corridor.
‘Oh dear,’ said the nice old lady, clicking her dentures in irritation. ‘I’d better ring for the police.’
‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing here, Glyn,’ said Mervyn.
‘This isn’t Nick’s room, Glyn.’
‘He’s two doors along. I have a spare key to his room…’
Of course you have.
‘…And I was collecting Nick’s things, my lovely. I think I owe it to him to sort out his stuff. You think? Of course you do. I came downstairs and I packed his stuff…’
Mervyn glanced in the corridor and saw that there was indeed a suitcase standing guard outside a room two doors down.
‘Well I saw Ken’s door was ajar, I came in and, well, here he was… Like this. Who’d have thought it?’
‘So you were just “finding the body”?’ said Mervyn, quizzically.
‘I don’t have to answer questions from someone like you, my lovely,’ Glyn retorted. ‘I’ve been nominated for BAFTAs. Now I’d better get on, I’ve got Nick’s things to attend to.’
And off he went, past Mervyn and down the corridor with barely a backward glance, wheeling the suitcase down the hall as though he was checking out. Mervyn was astonished.
‘This is really going to upset the day,’ the nice old lady sighed. ‘We serve breakfast until 9.30 so the girls are going to have to cope without me. And take it from me, they’re thick as shit.’
‘There’s no point leaving the girls to serve breakfast on their own,’ Mervyn found himself saying. ‘You go back and sort them out. I’ll sort this out for you.’
The nice old lady was obviously delighted at the offer of help, but looked wary. ‘But I don’t think… Is it your place to…?’
‘I’m the television company’s risk assessment officer so it’s my job to look after all dead bodies found during location filming. I’ll ring the police and hold the fort here.’
That clinched it for the nice old lady. ‘Wonderful! Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee? I won’t be specific because whatever the girls bring up will be anybody’s guess.’
Mervyn always craved coffee, but he controlled himself. ‘No thank you.’ So off she went. He went further into the room, looking around, staring unwillingly at the body. Then he noticed the CD player on the bookcase tucked behind the door.
