Hospital Corners

by William Stafford

  “This is a closed set,” he struggled to keep a stammer from his voice. “You can’t be in here. We have permits.”

  His hand reached along the wall for a light switch. It was grabbed by someone in the shadows.

  Dabney Dorridge cried out.

  And then was silenced.

  5

  At Serious there are no one-way mirrors in the interview rooms. Instead, state-of-the-art video equipment relays sound and images to a viewing room elsewhere in the building. It was into that viewing room that almost every police officer, plain clothed and in uniform, crowded to watch the questioning of Oscar Buzz. It was too rare an opportunity to miss. They wanted to say they had been there when the Hollywood actor was charged - if indeed that was the outcome of this interview. Chief Inspector Wheeler squeezed into the room and called them all a bunch of bastards and told the majority of those present to fuck off out of it. Those who remained - to operate the recording equipment, for example - were under strict instructions to keep their personal smart phones and other gadgets switched off, on pain of having their bollocks bitten off. Being an equal opportunities insulter, Wheeler informed the female officer present she was not above super-gluing her fanny shut if she so much as thought about trying to take a selfie.

  On screen, Buzz looked at home. It was like watching one of his films. He told Stevens repeatedly he had never been to the Railway Hotel, had never even met this Simon Popper person and, if they checked with staff at Birmingham International, they would corroborate his story. They had made a meal of checking his bags, every stitch of his clothing, and had only fallen short of conducting a full cavity search when Buzz had offered them all tickets to the premiere, once the film was in the can.

  Wheeler put Harry Henry on to checking that story right away. In the meantime, as instructed, Stevens announced he was going to show Buzz the CCTV footage from the aforementioned Railway Hotel. Wheeler instructed the technician to zoom in on the actor’s face. She wanted to watch his reaction when he saw himself walk across the screen and enter the dead man’s room.

  Oscar Buzz watched with interest. His mouth parted in surprise as the images played out.

  “It’s not me,” he said, calmly. “My ass is much nicer.”

  “It’s not him,” said Harry Henry, coming off the phone, “Birmingham International confirm it. And there is footage of him checking in at the Airport Inn at roughly the same time as the timestamp on the footage from the Railway.”

  “Shit a brick,” said Wheeler. “I knew it was too good to be true. Too fucking easy. We don’t get breaks like that, do we? Let him go.”

  Harry Henry buzzed through to the interview room and relayed the instruction.

  Oscar Buzz got to his feet; his face disappeared out of frame, replaced by his famous crotch. He could be heard thanking the detectives for resolving this matter so quickly and if there was anything else he could help them with, he would only be too happy to assist.

  “So where does that leave us, Chief?” Harry Henry blinked as his glasses slipped down his nose.

  “Up Shit Creek without a fucking GPS,” said Wheeler. She caught Harry’s hopeful expression and the way he was edging toward the exit. “Oh, go on, then,” she sighed. “Ask the fucker for his autograph.”

  “Thanks, Chief. It’s not for me; it’s for the Mrs.”

  Chief Inspector Wheeler had never seen the detective move so fast.

  ***

  When she got home, Miller rooted in a cupboard for a small wooden chest. In it were keepsakes, things that reminded her of her late mother. There, among the key-rings, thimbles, souvenir bookmarks from stately homes, and birthday cards Miller had made when she was at junior school, was a signed photograph bearing the logo of a now defunct TV station. The picture was of Bunny Slippers and it was signed - although Miller had always doubted it was by Bunny herself - “All my love, B.S.” Yeah, B.S. is right, she’d always thought, but on this occasion she looked at the memento with fond eyes. She remembered writing off for it and the panic of waiting for it to arrive in time for some long ago Mothers’ Day. And the look on Mom’s face when she’d opened the envelope! Unforgettable.

  Perhaps I should show this to Bunny, she wondered. Or - the detective in her suggested - perhaps I should get Bunny to autograph something else and then I could compare the signatures. Then I’d know once and for all if this is the genuine article.

  No. She put the photograph back in the chest and the chest back in the cupboard. It would be tarnishing Mom’s memory in some way that she could never clean off. Her mother had been so happy to receive the photograph it had become one of her dearest treasures. She had always talked of framing it and giving it pride of place among the family photographs on the mantelpiece. But somehow, as her mind and identity had started to yield to dementia, the photograph and Bunny Slippers had slipped from her memory.

  Miller found there were tears coursing down her cheeks. You never stop missing your mother, she considered. And I started missing mine long before she died.

  ***

  Oscar Buzz returned to his penthouse suite. He kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt. It heartened him to see that Dan was still there, curled up and asleep on the white sofa. Oscar went to him and stroked his dyed hair. The colour was close but no cigar. Perhaps he would supervise a retouch. Perhaps he could get Carlos flown over from L.A.

  The bottle of champagne was empty. Dan had polished it off while he waited. Oscar didn’t mind. There was always more champagne. What he regretted was the loss of their evening together. He hadn’t known Dan for more than a couple of days; he didn’t know much about him at all. Next to nothing, in fact. And yet he was somehow taken with him. Why was that?

  Because he looks like me? That can’t be the only reason I’m so attracted to him.

  A thought struck him.

  He looks like me...

  If I can think it, it won’t take long for the cops to think it... They’ll think it’s Dan on that CCTV footage. They’ll think he killed that A.D... .

  Oscar chewed his lower lip. How was he going to play this?

  He perched on the edge of the sofa and blew in Dan’s ear. “Dan-Daniel-Danny... ”

  The stand-in stirred and blinked himself awake. He half-rolled and then was jolted back to full consciousness when he saw Hollywood heartthrob Oscar Buzz looking down at him, with a smile on his lips and concern in his eyes.

  “We have to talk,” he said.

  6

  Oscar found a note the next morning: “Sorry, I fell asleep. Catch you later? D x”

  Oh, you bet! Oscar propped the note on the ornamental fireplace. He showered and shaved and, with a spring in his step, tripped down to the lobby to wait for his car. He was full of ‘good mornings’ for everyone in his path. His movie star smile was all the more dazzling because it was genuine.

  He danced with the ladies in Wardrobe and sang songs in the make-up chair much to the faux-annoyance of the girl who was trying to apply cuts and bruises to that handsome fizzog.

  “Oh, give it a rest, chicken,” said a voice from the adjacent chair. Oscar looked more closely at the mirror in front of him. He’d assumed the seat was occupied only by a heap of used towels but... no! Apparently there was a tiny husk of a woman in there somewhere. He could make out her hair, in large plastic rollers and, as the make-up artist worked her magic, a face began to appear among all the crumpled fabric. Eyes like raisins met his in the reflection.

  “Call me Bunny,” she smiled.

  “Oscar Buzz,” the actor nodded.

  “You’re the totty.” The grin was so broad the dentures almost fell out.

  The American was not familiar with the term but he decided right away that he liked the old bird.

  “You’re the star,” he grinned in return. “Excuse me, but do you happen to know which scen
e we’re doing this morning?”

  “Not done your homework?” Bunny teased.

  “I prefer things to be a surprise. Keeps me fresh. That’s my approach.”

  “What a load of bollocks, dear! Let me give you a tip. I’ve been in the business so long Noah hired me as his on-board cabaret. Just learn the words and don’t bump into the furniture. All of this... ” her finger flicked up and down to indicate his famous face, “... do as little as possible. The audience will read the performance they want to see on your face. That’s why critics are such arseholes. They turn up because they have to so they’re already in a bad mood. We don’t stand a chance. Arseholes to a man! Now, your paying public - bless their hearts, where would we be without them? - they turn up because they want to. They fork over their hard-earned wonga because they want a good time; they want to be taken out of themselves - that’s half the battle. And you’re very easy on the eye, my love; you don’t need to bother yourself with things like characterisation.”

  Oscar nodded, absorbing the wisdom of the veteran. “So... what scene is it?”

  Bunny asked the make-up girl.

  “Oh, yes! That’s right. I’m patching you up after you’ve been in a punch-up. Nurse Whoozit’s ex has set about you in the canteen. And I’m being all disapproving of your sneaking around but secretly I’ve a soft spot for you, deep down - wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me. We did a storyline just like this back in 1964 but of course, that time I was the brazen young nurse.”

  Dabney Dorridge’s p.a. Jessica burst in; her eyes were wide and frantic.

  “Morning, Oscar. Morning, Bunny darling. Have you seen Dabney anywhere?”

  “Oh dear! Lost the director, have you, darling?” Bunny thought it was hilarious.

  “Um, no,” Oscar answered Jessica’s question.

  “Oh, dear... ” Jessica chewed her biro. “He was working late last night and was going to email me the revisions.”

  “Perhaps the ghosts have got him,” said Bunny, enjoying herself.

  “Ghosts!” said Oscar.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” said Jessica. “Don’t listen to a word she says. Look, if Dabney does show his face... ”

  “We’ll tell him you’re insane with worry,” Bunny squeezed the young woman’s hand. Jessica rushed out again, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Gee... ” Oscar sat back. “First the writer goes AWOL, then the A.D... well, you know... and now Dabney?”

  “Oh, he’ll turn up,” said Bunny Slippers. “Worse than actors, your directors.”

  “What was that about a ghost?”

  “This place is haunted, love. Haven’t you heard?”

  Bunny Slippers settled back in her chair and filled him in with the disused hospital’s chequered history.

  ***

  Chief Inspector Wheeler projected an image of an unshaven man with large bags under his eyes onto the white board in the briefing room.

  “Bernard Brody,” she announced. “The writer.” She clicked a button and the photograph was replaced by one of Simon Popper. “The assistant director.” She clicked a third time and Dabney Dorridge’s head shot appeared complete with his trademark deerstalker hat. “And, I’ve just had a call from his p.a. the director. Missing, dead, and presumed missing. What the bloody blue fuck is going on at that hospital?”

  She glared at her assembled team. They couldn’t return her gaze and stared blankly at the screen behind her.

  “I put you in there to prevent crime. What the fuck are you doing? Promoting it? ‘Here, help yourselves to any member of the crew who takes your fancy?’ Shit on a stick! Or have you forgotten you’m coppers? Are you so far in fucking character you really think you’re a trio of performing chimps in a fucking tea bag advert?”

  “Um... ” Miller raised a wary hand.

  “What?” Wheeler roared. She hated being interrupted mid-rant.

  “Um... it’s just that... can we go back again, though? Our cover’s blown, isn’t it? I mean Oscar Buzz knows we’re coppers now.”

  Wheeler was astonished: Miller had made a good point.

  “No,” she decided, “you go back in and do your bit. But keep your fucking ears peeled. I think our friend Oscar fucking Buzz will be reassured there is a police presence to protect his precious arse. And, if he isn’t, well, that’s tough tits. I’m not entirely convinced he’s not involved in this in some way. After all, he is a fucking actor. Remember that! They’m not to be trusted.”

  Harry Henry scribbled a frantic note of that last statement.

  “Well, I don’t know what you’m all doing still sat sitting there,” Wheeler’s patience with the team had run out. She jerked her thumb towards the exit. “Go on,” she snarled. “Fuck off.”

  Harry Henry and Stevens shuffled out like good boys but there was some argy-bargy in the doorway between Miller and Pattimore.

  “You ask her,” said Miller.

  “No, you,” said Pattimore.

  “No, you!”

  “Better from you: yours is work-related.” He bobbed out his tongue and dodged past her and into the corridor.

  Miller approached the Chief Inspector who was trying to shut down the projector. “Chief?”

  “Fucking bastard bullshit.”

  “Chief, could I have a word?”

  “Shit arse! There, that’s a word. Or is it two? Have them both.” She was about to launch the remote control at the projector’s unblinking eye. Miller took the gadget from her and aimed it casually at the machine. The beam of light went out and the fan slowed its whirr to silence.

  “Pile of wank,” was Wheeler’s assessment. “Now, what is it, Miller? Can’t have you late for your close-up.”

  “Er... ” Miller shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It’s D. I. Brough... ”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you heard?”

  “Have I heard what? Has something happened? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing! That’s just it!” Miller wrung her hands - if the remote control had been a hamster she would have throttled it by now. “Not a sausage. Can you at least tell me - tell us - when he’s coming back?”

  Wheeler looked at the detective sergeant’s face: the face of a child asking why it’s still so long until Christmas. She gave a philosophical shrug. “How long is a piece of cheese?” was her enigmatic response.

  Miller groaned with frustration.

  “Oh, calm your tits, Melanie,” Wheeler advised. “You know as well as I do, when he saw you were out of danger with your Beaver Fever, he came to me to ask for a period of extended leave.”

  “Yes, but -”

  “He’s been through a lot, Miller. I couldn’t tell him to fuck off, could I?”

  “But how long did you extend it for?”

  “I beg your pardon! Oh! You mean his leave. Indefinitely. He’ll be back when he’s back.”

  “Fucking Confucius has got nothing to worry about,” Miller muttered.

  “You mind your fucking language. Listen, Mel. I know you want him to come back. We all do. Christ knows he couldn’t do any worse than the rest of you at the moment. But I’m sure he’s okay. Trust me.”

  She patted Miller’s upper arm.

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “Now fuck off.”

  ***

  The producers were displeased - to put it mildly. Someone had leaked pictures of the scene between Oscar Buzz and Bunny Slippers onto the internet. The reactions were, by and large, unfavourable and, inevitably, more than one gossip site was linking the romantic (i.e. sexual) coupling.

  The producers summoned the newly-appointed Julian Farrow, the replacement assistant director, into the production office and told him it would have to be a closed set from now on. No one was to have
a cell phone, camera, or even a pencil and paper. Everyone would have to sign stringent confidentiality contracts under threat of the full force of the law.

  “Fair dos,” said Julian Farrow. “Any word on who’s taking over from Dabney?”

  The producers glanced at each other.

  “Well,” said one.

  “Strictly entre nous,” said the other, “We’re hoping he’ll turn up. It’s disastrous for a flick to change director during principal photography.”

  “So,” the first one resumed, “we’d like you to take the helm. For now.”

  “With a raise, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Blimey,” Julian Farrow was stunned but only for a moment. He shook the producers by the hand with vigorous gratitude and swore he would not let them down.

  “Good,” said one.

  “We’re pleased,” said the other. “We haven’t even seen the rushes but we’re feeling a change of approach is necessary.”

  “Just what the doctor ordered, eh?” Julian Farrow laughed. Two blank faces stared at him.

  “We’re thinking a siege.”

  “With hostages.”

  “A shoot-out. Perhaps on the roof.”

  “Smashing!” said Julian Farrow. “When can I see the sides?”

  “As soon as Monty faxes them over from L.A.”

  It was Julian Farrow’s turn to stare back. “You don’t mean Monty... ”

  The producers grinned. “We do indeed. Quite a coup, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s certainly a surprise; I’ll give you that. But has he even seen the show?”

  “Show?”

  “Has he ever seen Hospital Corners? Does he know what it’s about?”

  “Julian, Julian, Julian,” said one.

  “That’s immaterial,” said the other. “Nobody’s seen the show.”

  “There’s clips on YouTube,” Julian offered.

  “Probably.” The producers suddenly became engrossed in some papers on the desk. Julian got the feeling he had been dismissed.