Hospital Corners

by William Stafford

  “She’s a sweetheart,” said Oscar. “Excuse me, I need to find the restroom.”

  He detached himself and slipped away. Delia did her best to stop her smile from faltering. She waved vaguely at people across the room and wished her clutch purse was big enough to hide behind or climb into.

  A man approached. “Miss Cartwright, stunning as always.”

  “Thank you, kind sir!”

  “So what’s all this I hear about Hospital Corners?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That there’s more drama off-set than on... You and a certain Hollywood heartthrob, for instance... ”

  Delia batted her eyelashes and did her best to look coy. “I think our chemistry will ignite the screen,” she said. She pretended to see someone she knew across the room and, excusing herself, left the reporter where he was.

  Where was Oscar? The show was about to begin. People were being ushered into the auditorium.

  Delia jumped as a hand clamped onto her arm.

  “You can sit by me, dear,” grinned Bunny Slippers, already three sheets to the wind. Her dentures wobbled. Before Delia could utter a word, she found herself being whisked through the doors and down the central aisle to the front row.

  “You can keep me awake, dear,” Bunny nudged her with a sharp elbow. “I tend to fart in my sleep and that would only frighten the models.”

  ***

  Pinkie Green was furious. He lit a third incense stick to clear his bad mood. The previous two must have been defective. He sat on the floor of Oscar’s trailer in the lotus position and pressed his fingertips together.

  He tried chanting but he was too wound up. Fucking Oscar and his fucking online boyfriend. Or best friend. Or whatever the hell he was. The point was Oscar shouldn’t want anyone else while he had Pinkie in his life. Pinkie could do anything and everything Oscar might require - why then was he talking to men halfway around the world?

  It pained Pinkie but he couldn’t help poring over the printouts of those private conversations. Why did Oscar never tell him any of this stuff? Oh, you adore the British accent, do you? Oh, you admire a guy with intelligence? Oh, you were bitten on the knee by a rattlesnake when you were a kid?

  The guy’s replies were just as gut-wrenchingly awful. Oh, you adore an American accent - on the right guy? Oh, you think intelligence attracts intelligence, do you? Prick! And you once twisted your ankle running away from an earthworm?

  Funny guy.

  Fucking prick.

  Pinkie cast around for something to drink. In a kitchen unit he found a bottle of Scotch. A gift, no doubt, from the intelligent, funny British guy with worm-o-fucking-phobia.

  He took a sip and spent the next couple of minutes coughing. Neat Scotch was not his usual tipple. But it was too much to hope there’d be the makings of a sea breeze or a slippery nipple in a crappy trailer in the asshole of England. He took another sip. It went down easier this time so he drank a bit more. It did nothing to assuage his anger but somehow it brought matters into startling clarity.

  He was willing to bet his left nut that’s where Oscar was right that minute. Boinking the British guy, who just happened to be Oscar’s stand-in on his latest picture. Oh, well played, British guy! There’s no question about your intelligence.

  He took a hefty glug but slipped and drenched his smock top with whisky.

  Shit.

  He didn’t want Oscar to come in and find him in that state, stinking of booze. He’d only had enough to steady his frazzled nerves, but Oscar wouldn’t believe it.

  Shit fuck.

  Pinkie peeled off the sodden shirt and twisted the shower control to the ON position.

  Yeah! A shower would calm him down as well as make him smell fresh.

  He stripped off the rest of his clothes and left them pooled on the floor. He got into the booth and slid the Perspex door closed. The jet of water hit him in the face, energising him. Within seconds, Pinkie began to feel better. Why, clean and fresh and pretty again, Pinkie would be nothing short of irresistible. Oscar wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.

  He sang to himself and to the spirits of refreshing, life-giving water and to the omniscient Power of Now, praising and thanking as the case may be, but his song was interrupted by the sound of someone coming into the trailer. A shadowy figure loomed beyond the steamed-up screen. Pinkie slid the door open and thrust out his head.

  “Oh,” he breathed out in relief, “it’s you!”

  ***

  Delia Cartwright, having been unable to concentrate on the fashion parade - it was amateurish stuff and unimaginative, and you wouldn’t catch Delia Cartwright dead in as much as a stitch of it - she’d slipped out for some air. This was easily accomplished because Bunny Slippers had dozed off as soon as the houselights had dimmed. Oscar Buzz hadn’t returned and she wondered if he was in some toilet stall snorting something or other. She knew what those Hollywood stars could be like. Unlike the Brits who preferred a mug of builder’s tea and a chocolate digestive.

  She asked one of the doormen to summon her car. While she waited she occupied herself with her phone, googling Oscar Buzz. Looking for pictures or stories that linked her with him.

  Closeted Star Flies To England.

  Buzz Buzzes Off to Britain.

  Oscar Flees Gay Scandal.

  What was all this bollocks? Delia sighed. She supposed it was the lot of those in the public eye. The higher up you were, the more this kind of shit was flung at you. It was part of the deal, she reckoned, having fallen victim to her own cellulite-on-the-beach photograph only last summer. It had done wonders for her gym membership.

  The car pulled up. She flopped into the back seat. After a while she realised the car was going nowhere and the driver was patiently awaiting instruction.

  “Oh, I don’t bloody know,” she sighed. “Take me where the movie stars go.”

  She sat back and the car pulled away. She supposed she would end up at some swish nightspot where she could dance and drink the night away. She was surprised, then, to be roused from her google search to find the fool of a driver had brought her to the movie set. The grim edifice loomed in the dark, foreboding and malevolent. You could make a great horror film here, she observed.

  “Um, thank you, driver,” she jiggled the door release. “I - er - I left my script here and need to learn it before the morning.”

  In the rear view mirror the driver’s eyes rolled up, as if he understood completely what it is to be a high-pressured, globally famous film star.

  She tottered across the forecourt in her ungainly heels and fished in her clutch purse for the keys to her trailer. The stillness of the place was menacing. By day it was a hive of activity, a cauldron of creativity; there was definitely a different vibe by night.

  There’s a bottle of voddy in my trailer, she remembered. This little trip wouldn’t be a complete waste of time after all.

  She heard something. She paused and tried to focus on the sound.

  Bloody whale song!

  Who the bloody hell was playing whale song at this time of night? She turned a corner and reached the car park that was crowded with trucks and trailers. Lights were on in one of them - she knew which right away.

  Oscar!

  You sneaky bastard! Abandon me at that fucking feeble fashion fiasco and come back here and listen to fucking whale song!

  Well, we’ll see about that.

  She slipped out of her shoes and strode wilfully to Oscar’s door.

  12

  It was Oscar himself who raised the alarm. After a long and lonely night of trying to contact Dan via all the online methods at his disposal, Oscar had turned up for work determined to lose himself and his low spirits in the role. Acting did that sometimes - took you out of yourself for a little bit and when yo
u came out of character again, you couldn’t remember what had got you so low to begin with.

  The sight that greeted him when he reached his trailer was one of pure horror. The door was ajar - with a flash of guilt, he remembered consigning Pinkie to wait for him there. Oops. I’ll make it up to him. Introduce him to the British delicacy that is the marvellous chocolate digestive biscuit. Yes, I know it’s not macrobiotic but everyone deserves a cheat day, don’t they?

  “Pinkie?” he called as he pushed the door. There was something behind it, preventing him from getting in. He poked his head through the gap and gasped in shock.

  There was blood everywhere. At first Oscar thought it was a prank - those guys in special effects having a bit of a laugh, as the Brits say. They’d really gone to town; they’d even got the smell...

  He looked down. What was blocking the door was Delia Cartwright’s head. Her eyes had been poked out with her stiletto heels. One shoe was still in her eye socket. The actress lay crumpled like a broken puppet. Dead.

  The shower was running. Water was flooding the far end of the trailer - something was blocking the drain. Oscar peered closer. A shock of white-blonde hair was visible, poking from the bottom of the stall.

  Pinkie!

  Also dead.

  Oscar withdrew and pulled the door closed. He leaned against the trailer and closed his eyes. He could still see the scene in his mind’s eye.

  How could this happen? Why did this happen?

  What the hell do I do now?

  His heart was pounding and his breath was shallow. On unsteady legs he staggered to the production office, ignoring the greetings and salutations of others as he passed.

  “Good morning, Oscar!” said one of the producers.

  “How nice to see you!” said the other.

  Oscar collapsed into a chair. “My trailer - there’s - he... she... ”

  “I’m sure we can find you a bigger trailer, Oscar darling. If you can bear to suffer that one for just one more day.”

  Oscar’s eyes widened with terror. “Not going in there! Ever!”

  The producers glanced at each other.

  “Oscar?” said one.

  “Is there a problem?” said the other.

  ***

  “Fuck me up the chutney!” Chief Inspector Wheeler herself attended the scene. Matters had clearly escalated. This was not just silly buggers swapping screenplays and shutting people in cupboards any more. She turned to the SOCO for his initial assessment.

  “Two dead. One male, one female. Both show signs of violence. The female was stabbed through the eyes by her own shoes. The male - strangled in the shower.”

  “Like our friend Simon Popper!” Wheeler nodded. “Tell me - is it possible the bloke murdered the woman and then topped himself?”

  The SOCO pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t like to commit to any scenario at this point, ma’m. There may or may not have been a third party involved. There is no sign of forced entry.”

  “To the people or the caravan?”

  “To any of them.”

  Wheeler thanked him for the information and relayed it to her team. Miller was visibly distraught. She’d always liked Delia Cartwright and had even considered having her hair done like hers.

  “What a waste,” said Stevens, sadly. “I was sure she was giving me the glad eye.”

  “In your dreams,” said Pattimore.

  “I’ll have to take her out of my spank bank,” Stevens was glum. “Bit weird to wank over a dead wench.”

  Everyone was thoroughly disgusted with him.

  “What? I’m only saying.”

  “Moving forward,” said Wheeler. “Harry, check what security systems are in place. There must be something. Cameras. A bloke with a dog. Anything. See what you can find.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Stevens, Pattimore, you talk to Oscar bloody Buzz and take his statement. Ask him to name names. Who else had access to his trailer? That kind of thing. Try not to cause some kind of international incident.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “No, Chief.”

  “Right. I’m shutting this production down. I’ll tell the Yanks myself. It’ll be my fucking pleasure.”

  “Um, Chief?”

  “Yes, Miller?”

  “What shall I do?”

  Wheeler’s eyebrows raised. “Honestly, Miller; I should think that was obvious.”

  Miller frowned. The penny dropped. “Bunny... ”

  “Well done, Miller!” Wheeler stormed off. Miller deflated like a punctured balloon.

  It was down to her to tell Bunny Slippers about the murders.

  13

  Bunny was waiting on the doorstep of her Much Wenlock cottage when the car pulled up. It wasn’t the usual car - the film must be running over budget; Bunny had experienced it many times before. But why her Bentley should be the first to go, she never knew.

  She was surprised to see that nice young lady Melanie get out and approach Bunny with her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her raincoat.

  “Good morning, dear!” she smiled.

  “Hello, Bunny,” said Miller. “Can we go inside?”

  “Of course, dear. But won’t we be late for the filming?”

  “There is no filming,” said Miller. She slipped her arm into the old woman’s and they went indoors.

  ***

  Stevens and Pattimore played back video footage of Oscar Buzz giving his statement as the witness who found the murder victims.

  “I’m better looking than him,” said Stevens, preening his moustache.

  “Fuck off,” said Pattimore. “And shut up.”

  “I think he’s lying,” said Stevens. “He is an actor. And a crap one at that.”

  “Exactly,” said Pattimore. “He’s always been rubbish. But look at him when we ask about anybody else who might have access to his trailer.”

  “His eye twitches,” Stevens tapped the monitor.

  “And he’s not that good an actor,” said Pattimore. “I believe him. But he’s hiding something. Covering up.”

  “So he’s not the killer but he knows who is... ”

  “Could be... ”

  “Or - he is the killer and he wants us to think it’s somebody else... ”

  “But we’ve already established he’s a shit actor.”

  “That’s what he wants us to think. The clever bastard!” Stevens whistled in admiration.

  “Make your mind up,” said Pattimore. “We need to decide what we’re going to tell the Chief.”

  ***

  “Oh! Oh, dear. That lovely girl.” Bunny Slippers paled visibly. Miller patted her hand. They were perched on Bunny’s sofa in a room that was cluttered with antiques and memorabilia. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” said Miller.

  “We, dear? Who do you think we are, the Bobbsey Twins?”

  “No, I mean, me and the people I work with.”

  “The extras, dear? Oh, I know you mean well but I’d leave it to the professionals if I were you.”

  Miller pulled out her i.d. Bunny peered at it.

  “Very nice, dear. Looks authentic.”

  “It is. I’m a detective sergeant.”

  “Really, dear? I used to do waitressing before the acting really took off.”

  “I’m not an actor, Bunny. I really am a detective. I have been all along. We’re investigating the murders and we’ll catch whoever’s responsible; don’t you worry about that.”

  It was Bunny’s turn to pat Miller’s hand.

  “Of course you are, dear, and of course you will.” Her brow dipped. “You don’t think... the killer will be after me, do you?”

 
; “I shouldn’t think so,” said Miller. Bunny looked affronted.

  “And why not? Why is it always us older ladies who get overlooked? Damn this profession. You get to a certain age and your parts start drying up.”

  Miller shifted uncomfortably and offered to put the kettle on. Bunny followed her into the kitchen.

  “I’m not saying I want to be murdered, chicken. I’m not completely batty. But think about it: I could be useful to you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Blimey, I thought you were the professional. As bait, dear! Dangle me as bait. Bring the killer out of the woodwork. Then you swoop in and nab the beggar.”

  The old woman’s eyes twinkled, searching Miller’s face for approval.

  “I don’t know... I’ll have to run it by the boss.”

  “What could go wrong?” Bunny handed bone china cups and saucers to the detective. “It’s worked before.”

  “Has it?” said Miller. “You’ve helped to catch a killer before?”

  “Oh, yes!” Bunny laughed. “It was one of our most exciting episodes.”

  ***

  The producers were reluctant to close down production, claiming it would be financial and professional suicide. Wheeler said she didn’t give a flying shit in a bath tub about that. She had a killer to catch and that was all that mattered. They asked how long it would take and Wheeler asked them about the height of a Chinaman. She left them puzzled in their office. Immediately they fell to drawing up plans - they could shoot around Delia Cartwright. The scenes already in the can could still be used. And the publicity would do the film good in the long run... Poor Nurse de Screens was going to be bumped off. By the terrorists! She could be blown up. Doctor Kilmore would be devastated - potential Oscar-winning moment for Oscar... and it would motivate his character to do his utmost to thwart those terrorist bastards...

  Inspired, the producers faxed their ideas to Monty. Unlike Delia Cartwright, Hospital Corners was not dead yet.

  ***

  Harry Henry found the film set’s security arrangements less than helpful. There was a night-watchman, apparently, whose shift started at midnight and ran until six the next morning. He had shown up for duty as usual - long after the murders would have been committed.