Hospital Corners

by William Stafford

“Then, my darling girl, the face you should be pulling is this:” he contorted his jowly features into an upturned grimace that could just about pass for a smile. “It’s all publicity for the film, don’t you see? Before we’ve got so much as one foot of footage in the can. And it hasn’t cost us a penny.” Dabney Dorridge’s spirits were considerably uplifted by this news. He glided out of his office to the catering truck and ordered a massive fry-up.

  Jessica chewed her thumbnail. Dabney Dorridge in a good mood could be just as dangerous.

  ***

  “It’s not the limousine I asked for,” Oscar Buzz looked disdainfully at the car that had come to collect him. He peered over the top of his sunglasses to check his eyes were not deceiving him. The driver was waiting patiently with the door open. Meanwhile some annoying jerk was getting all up in the movie star’s grill and shit.

  “I’m sorry; who are you again?”

  “I’m your stunt double,” said the annoying jerk. “And I also stand in for you when they’re rigging the lighting and so on.”

  Buzz took off his sunglasses completely and looked the stand-in up and down. He shook his head and his long hair bobbed as though in a shampoo commercial. “Oh, no; that dye job will have to be done again. I’m honey blond not shitty straw. And your eyes are the wrong colour.”

  “I wear blue contacts. But I’m never in close-up anyway.”

  “Well, you’re the right height and build; I guess that’s something. When I worked on Samurai Spiders, they used a fucking midget as my double. A midget in a clown’s wig. I’ve never been so insulted. I almost walked off that picture and it’s a good thing for me that I didn’t. That piece of shit went on to gross over two hundred mill. Did you see it?”

  “I’ve seen all your films.”

  “Good. Now please don’t talk to me all the way to the set. I have a bit of a headache.”

  “Rough night, was it?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I just meant learning your lines, of course.”

  Oscar Buzz’s Californian tan paled. He hadn’t even glanced at the script. He waved the stand-in into the car. “You do have the sides with you? I could do with a refresher on the way.”

  The car rolled away from the hotel’s employee car park, leaving a crowd of photographers waiting at the front entrance in vain.

  ***

  Also experiencing a scalp that was too tight for her skull that morning, Melanie Miller was getting ready for another day in a fake hospital bed when her phone beeped with an urgent message. It was from Chief Inspector Wheeler, calling the team to meet at the Serious building right away and if not sooner.

  Bugger, she thought. What now? She hoped they hadn’t got another case. She was so looking forward to meeting her idol Oscar Buzz.

  When she arrived, Stevens and Pattimore were already in the briefing room. Detective Inspector Harry Henry bustled in after, spilling coffee and dried apricots.

  “Good fucking morning, Vietnam,” said Chief Inspector Wheeler. “I won’t keep you luvvies from your precious film but we’ve had a report come through from the Railway Hotel. Young bloke found dead in his shower this morning. Possible suicide, possible accident.”

  Stevens was chuckling already; he was one step ahead. Miller swatted at his leg. “Have some respect, arsehole; somebody’s died.”

  “Tell them, boss,” he bounced impatiently. “Tell them how he died.”

  Wheeler emitted a long-suffering sigh. “All the signs point to a bout of auto-erotic activity gone wrong. The deceased was naked - of course he bloody was; he was in the shower - but with the belt of his dressing gown around his neck and a tangerine in his gob.”

  Harry Henry put up his finger. “What does the SOCO say, Chief?”

  “Well, tests are as yet inconclusive, but it may be a Satsuma instead.”

  Harry Henry pushed his spectacles back up his nose and made a note.

  “It’s an asphyxi-wank!” Stevens clapped his hands.

  “I don’t get it,” said Miller.

  “You know; for some, just knocking one off the wrist normal style ain’t enough. They’ve got to go a bit further and so they try strangling themselves when they get to the vinegar strokes.” The explanation was accompanied by the appropriate, inappropriate gestures.

  “Trust you to be the expert,” said Wheeler. “You wanker.”

  “And if that’s what happened, why are we being told about it?”

  “Good question, Jason,” Wheeler actually smiled at the detective constable. “Perhaps when I reveal the identity of this poor tosser, you might see why I called you in.”

  She zapped a remote control at an overhead projector. It took three attempts and a couple of swearwords before it worked. Behind her, the white board was filled with a photograph of the scene. The young man was slumped on his knees in the shower cubicle. The dressing gown belt hung wetly around his neck. His tongue protruded swollen from the corner of his mouth.

  “That’s - that’s - whatsisname,” said Miller, getting to her feet. “You know: whojimmyflop.”

  The other members of Serious tilted their heads to one side and then the other. They were none the wiser.

  “It’s him from the film!” Miller was exasperated. “You know, the assistant director!”

  “Is it?” said Stevens.

  “Oh, yes!” said Pattimore. “Now you’ve said.”

  “Frig me with a pygmy,” Wheeler muttered. “You’re supposed to be detectives. His name is Simon Popper. Adult male in his late twenties. I’ve ordered a full autopsy - in the light of the other trouble the film’s been having. Just in case.”

  “You think it might have been murder then, Chief?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s for us to find out, isn’t it, Harry? But I want you lot to play it down when you get to the set. You know nothing about it - that should be an easy acting job for most of you. It’s a tragic accident and that’s all you know.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Um, chief?” Harry Henry stayed behind as the others filed out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Wheeler reached up and patted his face a little too sharply. “I’ve got a special job for you.”

  ***

  When the three detectives arrived on set, the mood was already sombre. Word had got around about Simon Popper’s unexpected and untimely death. The wardrobe assistants were beside themselves. They’d worked with the deceased on previous projects and he’d always looked after them, they said: fielding complaints from hot-headed directors and interceding on their behalf.

  “Such a lovely boy,” sobbed one into a bedraggled and sodden clump of tissues.

  “It’s terrible,” agreed Miller.

  Pattimore nodded sadly.

  “You must be choked,” said Stevens. Miller kicked him in the shin and she and Pattimore bundled him out of the caravan before he could say anything else.

  “We’ll play it cool,” said Miller. “We do what we’re told but we keep our eyes and ears open, okay?”

  “It’s all right for you,” Pattimore grimaced, “You get to be in bed all day.”

  “Oi,” said Stevens, “What’s all this? I outrank you, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Right then, boss,” said Pattimore, “What do you think we should do?”

  “Um... ” Stevens’s porn star moustache bristled. “What she said.”

  Miller climbed into the bed; Stevens and Pattimore took up their positions as concerned visitors.

  “I’m your little brother,” said Pattimore. “Here to cheer you up with some well-meaning but ultimately cruel inter-sibling banter.”

  “We’re not allowed to talk,” Miller reminded him. “Just look like we are.”

  “What am I?” said St
evens, eager to join in.

  “A useless wanker,” said Miller.

  “A dodgy uncle,” said Pattimore.

  “I think I’m a dashing detective,” Stevens preened his eyebrows, “and Miller’s a vital witness the Mob are trying to rub out.”

  “Trust you to think of rubbing out,” said Miller.

  Stevens gasped. “Hoi! I’m not the asphyxi-wanker!”

  They became aware he had said that rather more loudly than was advisable. Members of cast and crew alike sent him looks of horror and disgust. Reddening, Stevens turned away and took a studied interest in a prop magazine.

  A young woman in leggings and a head-set came over and extended a tape measure from the tip of Miller’s nose to the foot of the bed. She jotted some notes on a clipboard, gave Stevens a glare of outrage and went away.

  “What was that all about?” said Stevens.

  “Well, obviously, everybody’s upset about whatsit - Simon,” said Miller.

  “No, I mean the measuring.”

  Miller grunted at Stevens’s lack of sensitivity.

  “Focus,” said Pattimore. “Something about which lens to use, or something like that, I expect.”

  “They’re going to need fucking widescreen,” laughed Stevens. Miller slapped the magazine from his hands.

  They fell into silence and waited.

  ***

  In Oscar Buzz’s trailer, the Hollywood star tipped some godawful British tea into the sink and produced a hip flask from somewhere about his person.

  “I wanna thank you, man,” he waved the flask at his stand-in but didn’t offer him any. “Helping me go through the lines. Means a lot.” He thumped his chest twice and pulled a face meant to signify how deeply moved and touched he was.

  “It’s all right,” said the stand-in. “My pleasure, mate.”

  Buzz laughed. “My pleasure, mate” he mimicked. “Say, that’s not bad. Maybe I should play this doctor guy as British? What do you think?”

  The stand-in shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “What part of Britain do you mean? Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland... ?”

  “Christ!” Buzz threw up his hands in despair. “I didn’t expect a goddamn geography class. Where you come from. Where they talk like you.”

  “I’m not from around here. I’m from the South.”

  “Redneck country?”

  “The south of England!”

  “Is that London or Liverpool?”

  There was a soft rat-a-tat of knuckles on the door.

  “Mr Buzz?” said a runner, timid and star struck. “Dabney would like you on set in five. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  The runner’s head withdrew.

  “Gee, everyone’s so polite, aren’t they? If it’s not too much trouble! I’ve worked with directors who’re all Get your goddamn ass on the fucking set this minute or so help me, I’ll kick it sideways into next Tuesday. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You done many pictures, mate?”

  “Er - this is my first one.”

  “Well, stick with me, mate, and we’ll have us a blast.” And this time he did offer the flask.

  “Bit early for me,” the stand-in declined.

  “I’m still on L.A. time.” Oscar Buzz took a large swig. “Say, what was your name again?”

  “Er - Dan. Daniel. Danny. Whichever is fine.”

  “Well, cheers, Dan-Daniel-Danny. Always good to make a new friend.”

  The rat-a-tat sounded again.

  “Er - Mr Buzz... we’re ready for you now.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ! I’m on my fucking way already! Jesus!” He sent Dan a hard-done-by look and told him he was welcome to wait in the trailer while he went and ‘got his doctor on’.

  Alone, Dan couldn’t relax. He couldn’t believe it. Oscar Buzz - the Oscar Buzz! - was calling him ‘mate’ and welcoming him to his trailer - a trailer which had everything: humongous TV, games consoles, ice-maker on the fridge, massage chair...

  A twinge of guilt coursed through him. If he and Oscar Buzz were to have any kind of friendship at all, he oughtn’t to leave it too long before he told the movie star who he really was.

  3

  It was a long and tedious morning. There were fifty-one takes of Oscar Buzz walking through the ward to hand a file to the matron at the other end. As he passed their beds, patients, visitors and nurses had to watch him go by, with admiring looks - which, genuine at first, became increasingly difficult to put across as the morning wore on. Dabney Dorridge kept making the actor go back and do it over. More swagger! Less swagger! Stiffer! Looser! More jaunty...

  Oscar Buzz called a halt to proceedings and approached the director.

  “Real sorry to be so dumb, Danbey.”

  “Dabney!” whispered Jessica the p.a. urgently.

  “- but what’s my motivation here? I know I’m delivering this file, right? But what’s in it? Is it good news? Bad news? And who is this Ma Tron woman? Do I like her? Have I boinked her? Do I want to boink her? Is she hot?”

  Dabney Dorridge smiled. “Oscar, lovely Oscar. This shot is your introduction to the film. The establishing shot. You’re a high-flying, well-respected doctor; top of your game, leader in your field. Let me see that in your walk. Let me see you at ease. This hospital is your domain - your kingdom, if you will.”

  Oscar Buzz nodded as he processed this input. Then he blinked. “I’m royalty? Cool! And I get to boink Ma Tron!”

  “Oh Jesus blithering bollocks,” the director muttered to his p.a. “Clearly our star has yet to become acquainted with Bunny.”

  “Bunny? As in Playboy? Or is she a cartoon? I’ve done green screen before. Did you see Pretzels From Space? Spent six weeks talking to a tennis ball on the end of a fishing pole.”

  “Yes, yes, some of your best work, Oscar love. Now, just go back to your mark and WALK ACROSS THE FUCKING SET and will someone PLEASE tell the FUCKING EXTRAS to stop EATING the FUCKING GRAPES!”

  ***

  While all this was going on, Dan the stand-in stayed put. He didn’t know where else to go. Oscar Buzz could come back at any minute and Dan would like to spend more time with him, away from other people.

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune.

  When he comes back, I’m going to tell him who I am so we don’t get off on the wrong foot. It’s best to be as open and up front as possible.

  A brief fanfare of electronic chimes startled him. He froze. It happened again. He traced the source of the noises to a laptop on a kitchen surface - Oscar Buzz’s laptop!

  Against his better judgment, Dan opened the lid. A shadowy face peered back at him from the screen.

  “Finally!” a high-pitched voice screeched in an American accent. The face distorted as the caller at the other end peered closer to the webcam. “Oscar! Is that you? You look like shit, babe.”

  “Uh... ” Dan tried to convey through the media of stilted mime, tongue-tied non-verbal utterance and a general inability to communicate, that he was not Oscar Buzz at all but the connection was so poor and the quality of the sound and images was dreadful. Dan could see he was being stared at by a shock of platinum blonde hair atop a heavily made-up face - and either that was dirt on the lens or the caller was also sporting a pencil moustache.

  “I hope you can hear me, Oscar, you rat bastard, but I’m on to you, you liar! Cheat! Player!”

  “Uh... ” was all Dan could manage to get out of himself and into the exchange edgewise.

  “Oh, don’t try and play the innocent! You’re not that good of an actor. I know all about him, Oscar. I’ve seen everything. I’ve read them all - all those messages - How long has this been going on? You don’t have to tell me; they’re all date-stamped, you dumb fuck. Are you even listening to me? Look at me when I’m biting you
r head off.”

  “Um, I’m sorry... ” Dan tried to apologise and explain but managed neither.

  “And don’t try and be cute. That British accent needs work. Oh! It all makes sense now: why you wanted to take the job in England. You’re with him right now. Right! I’m getting the next flight over. You see if I don’t.”

  The call was disconnected.

  More than a little stunned, Dan sat down again. Who the fuck was that?

  The return of Oscar Buzz made him jump. The actor, still in his white doctor’s coat with a stethoscope draped over his shoulders, looked exhausted.

  “Shee! What a fucking shit show!”

  “Tough scene?” Dan essayed a sympathetic smile.

  “I had to walk! Fucking miles I must have walked. Can you imagine? Well, if they’re not happy, I’m sending you in to do it for me. Would you be a mate, mate, and pour me some coffee?”

  Dan obliged. He didn’t know whether he should pour some for himself.

  “Thanks. Say, you any good at neck rubs? I sure could use me a neck rub.”

  “Um... I’ll give it a go.”

  “Oh! You’ll give it a go, will you? I like that. I’ll give it a go, apples and pears, frogs and toads - am I doing it right?”

  “Not bad,” said Dan, reminded of some of the worst excesses of Dick Van Dyke, “if you want to offend half of the ticket-buying English public.”

  He stood behind Oscar’s chair. The actor lay back, surrendering that famous head into Dan’s trembling hands.

  This can’t be happening! Dan’s mind was skipping around inside his skull. He hoped to fuck he wouldn’t get a stiffy.

  “Oh, yeah... that feels good... ” Oscar Buzz closed his eyes. His lips half-parted. Even inverted, as it was from Dan’s point of view, it was still the most handsome face in the world.

  Dan hadn’t a clue what he was doing. He pressed his fingertips against the actor’s scalp and made tiny circular motions. He kneaded the nape of Oscar’s neck with both thumbs. The actor writhed under his touch and moaned with pleasure. Dan kept going.

  “God have mercy!” Oscar gasped. “You’re giving me a boner, man! Say, what time’s lunch over?” His hands moved to his flies. “You could give this a suck, you know, help me to relax.”