Geek Tragedy (25 page)
‘Oh,’ said Mervyn, realising. ‘This isn’t mine.’
‘I know it’s not yours. It doesn’t suit you.’
Mervyn dropped the bag.
‘Why are you looking at it?’
‘You promise to keep a secret?’
Minnie traced her finger over her delicious bosoms. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Mervyn steered Minnie to a quiet corner of the bar. ‘I think Vanity’s daughter has something to do with the deaths of Simon and Smurf. Or, I should say, the murders.’
‘Really?’
‘It all makes sense. Simon blackmailed Vanity—he gets killed. Smurf threatened Vanity, wanted to sue her over her book—he gets killed.’
‘Really?’
‘Vanity’s daughter threatened them both… And now they’re dead. Draw your own conclusions.’
‘Sounds like a pretty devoted daughter.’
‘Scarily devoted. Scary full stop. I heard she’s done a lot of mad things. She’s got more screws loose than the Styrax I fell on.’
‘Oh my God. Really?’
The thin-faced girl emerged from the toilet. ‘Oh God, she’s coming back. Don’t look. Or if you do look, don’t make it obvious.’
Mervyn pulled Minnie behind a plastic aspidistra. Vanity’s daughter glided in, not unlike a Styrax herself. Her unblinking eyes scorched the artificial foliage as they looked around.
Minnie looked slowly round, then she followed Mervyn’s eyeline and giggled. ‘
Her?
She’s not her daughter.’
In classic Styrax fashion, the girl went past them without looking in their direction and glided straight out of the bar. She didn’t go to the bag. It was only then that Mervyn realised the girl hadn’t been carrying a bag, only folders.
‘She’s Spooky Sandra,’ said Minnie. ‘She’s the president of the Vanity Mycroft fan club. Follows Vanity around every con she comes to…’ She craned her head in the other direction. ‘Ummm… Ah! Look!
That’s
Vanity’s daughter…’ She pointed.
Mervyn looked. Minnie was pointing into a large mirrored wall that made up one side of the bar. Mervyn could clearly see himself bent awkwardly over the pot-plant.
He could also see Minnie standing by him, finger pointing directly into her own reflection.
Pointing at herself.
‘There I am,’ she said.
Oh God…
180 degrees wrong. 180 degrees crap.
Mervyn leant against the table, clutching at the place in his midriff where his stomach used to be.
Everything started to move in slow motion, like a crash test film with Mervyn as the luckless blank-faced dummy flying through the car windscreen. Only this time the dummy just sagged limply onto a chair and waited helplessly for the inevitable impact.
Which never came.
Minnie just grinned at him.
‘More screws loose than the Styrax you fell on?’
‘Minnie I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. I honestly didn’t realise.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m so sorry…’
‘I SAID… DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!’
Her shout was loud and unexpected. A lot of hotel guests looked up from their conversations.
She swung her bag onto her shoulder, too violently. It hit the wall and exploded in a shower of lipsticks, packets of tissues, tampons and condoms. Mervyn felt guilty, embarrassed and incredibly old.
‘Here, let me…’ Mervyn dived to pick up the bits. He picked up the autograph book; he recognised it now. It was the one he’d signed yesterday.
Minnie knelt too, and whispered in his ear. ‘So what if I did kill them both? They deserved it. They crossed my mum. They hurt her.’
Mervyn went numb. ‘But… One of them was your
dad…
’
‘He wasn’t my dad. Mum had four husbands. I never had a dad. Certainly not him. Don’t ever tell anyone I killed them, or I’m going to have to kill you too. You’re very lucky I fancy you, Mervyn, or you’d be dead now.’ She grinned. A crooked, damaged grin.
She finished picking up her stuff, and walked off calmly, swinging from side to side, the bag slapping against her pert bottom.
Oh my God.
180 degrees wrong. 180 degrees crap.
After a good ten minutes staring into the mirrored wall at his own slackened face, Mervyn found the use of his legs again. He got up and lumbered away, too dazed to work out where he was walking to. He barely realised he was wandering back into the dealers’ room—where he was greeted by Andrew.
*
‘So to sum up, you accidentally slept with a mother
and
her daughter—in the one night?’
‘I thought Minnie had returned for a rematch. I’d taken some sleeping pills. I wasn’t fully compos mentis. It was an accident!’
‘An accident? I’ve heard of Freudian slips, but that’s ridiculous.’
‘You knew, didn’t you? Of course you did. You saw her hug me.’
‘Well… I suspected. To be honest, I was a bit stunned when you got hugged by Minnie this morning, but I assumed that was the effect you have on most young women.’
‘Oh my God. Oh…my… God. She’s going to kill me. What am I going to do? What the
hell
am I going to do?’
‘Don’t panic. Help is at hand. You see him over there?’ He waved at the vendor across the room, who gave them a cheery wave.
‘Yes?’
‘When they do find out, and one or other of them rips your dick off, don’t worry. He’s got catheters you can borrow.’
CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 1.00pm
EVENT: RODDY BURGESS—LEADING FROM THE FRONT
LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)
EVENT: ‘WAR OF THE VIXENS’ EPISODE SCREENING
LOCATION: The Catacombs of Herath(video lounge—room 1024)
EVENT: AUTOGRAPHS—VANITY MYCROFT, MERVYN STONE
LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)
[Cancelled] EVENT: PHOTOGRAPHS, WILLIAM SMURFETT
LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)
EVENT: BRINGING BACK ‘VIXENS: WHO TO SEND YOUR LETTERS TO—EXPERT PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
Mervyn walked woodenly along the corridor; his legs moved, but he couldn’t feel them. But they seemed okay on their own for the moment, doing the right-left–right thing under him.
Calm, calm, calm.
So he’d found the murderer.
And slept with her.
And the murderer’s mum.
It could have been worse, but he wasn’t sure how.
He ended up in his room, hiding. If he stayed under the bedcovers, no one would find him.
Knock knockity-knock.
That was his door. Bugger. So much for that plan.
Knock knockity-knock.
That was a familiar knock, he thought.
Oh God. It must be Vanity.
Knock knockity-knock.
Oh God. Unless… Wouldn’t it be ironic if her daughter had exactly the same knock as her…
‘Mervyn? Are you in there lover boy?’ shouted Minnie.
Oh God…
‘I hope me being a murderer won’t change our relationship at all.’
Mervyn stayed as silent as he could.
‘I thought we could have some fun. I could tie you up, and you could be at my mercy.’ She waited for an answer. Mervyn remained quiet.
‘Some other time, then. If you’re in there, Morris wants you for the writers panel. You’ve already missed one autograph session. Don’t be late. Or I’ll be very cross.’ One last knockity—and she left.
He was sitting on a time bomb. There was going to come a time when Minnie or Vanity would find out that he’d slept with both of them. And then the third murder victim at this convention would definitely be him. His only hope was to get out fast.
Something was vibrating under the covers, jiggling like a freshly caught salmon under his buttocks. For a moment he thought one of the Mycrofts had left something interesting and buzzing in his bed, but then he remembered he’d put his phone on to silent during his last panel.
‘Hello?’
A wash of sound. Low stertorous breathing, so close to the earpiece that it created a deep rhythmic whooshing noise in his ear. A blustery coastline making a dirty phone call.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Stone, it’s Stuart. Sorry to bother you.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Morris had it. He leaves his files in the office. Listen. Can you meet me? I think I’ve located some key evidence in our investigation.’
‘Stuart there’s been a change of plan. I’m not doing any more investigating.’
There was a huge pause, but not a silent one. The storm rushed into his ear again.
‘What did you say?’ Stuart asked.
‘I’m leaving very quickly. Probably now.’
‘But you’re doing the writers panel in a minute. I was looking forward to that.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important thing that’s just come up…’ His mind scrabbled for a plausible excuse. It failed. ‘Work.’
‘Work? That’s great! I’m really glad you have something to do. It’s great to see you at work.’
Mervyn didn’t know how to take that. ‘Thanks.’
‘But I do have important evidence. You might be interested. I’m going to the writers panel anyway, and then I’m going to the fancy-dress disco. See you there?’ And then he hung up.
Mervyn realised he’d made a mistake. The best way to catch a murderer was to use a sympathetic policeman, of course. Find Stuart. That’s right. Find Stuart and get him to get his policeman buddy’ to arrest Minnie. That’s a good plan.
*
He went to the writers panel, where he found Morris taking down redundant posters.
‘Hi Morris. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a young man anywhere? Called Stuart. He might be wearing a
Vixens
costume?’
Morris looked around at the sea of fans wearing
Vixens
costumes and just raised his eyebrows helplessly.
‘Point taken,’ said Mervyn. ‘Oh well, I’ll keep looking.’
‘Don’t forget you’ve got a writers panel in five minutes.’
‘Of course. Where is it?’
‘Right here.’ Morris pointed at the door next to them. A sign on it said ‘Writers panel’. There was already an expectant collection of fans clustering in a ragged queue, looking at him with awe. He was trapped.
He went into the empty room and sat at a long table facing the rows of chairs. No sign of Stuart.
The fans outside the door stared at him. Making sure he didn’t try to escape.
CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 2.00pm
EVENT: NICHOLAS EVERETT- LOOKING BACK
LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)
EVENT: ‘OPERATION GENOCIDE’—EPISODE SCREENING
LOCATION: The Catacombs of Herath (video lounge—room 1024)
EVENT: PHOTOGRAPHS—RODERICK BURGESS
LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)
EVENT: WRITERS PANEL—MERVYN STONE, ANDREW JAMIESON, BOB AND BARBARA BRAINTREE
LOCATION: Hyperion Bridge (room 1010)
EVENT: QUESTIONS FROM THE AUDIENCE—EXPERT PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless,Craig Jones, Darren Cardew
LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)
In the hospitality room, the stewards were packing away for another year. They were removing the laminated schedules and trying not to singe themselves on the light fittings, while a steward was folding up struts and tripods, fitting them snugly into the padded security of a silver suitcase.
Minnie was there too, calmly working away. All trace of madness had been expunged from her face. She was her usual chirpy self again.
Morris entered and patted the video camera round his neck, like a St Bernard showing off a particularly fine barrel of brandy. ‘Just filmed the dealers. They’re not very good at smiling or sounding excited to be here,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t do me a favour, would you?’ He gave the video camera to Minnie. ‘Could you have a look through the footage to find any shots of Simon and Smurf? Perhaps I can put a “murder victim” package together, get some music under it or something.’
Whether Minnie thought that was a particularly tasteful idea or not, she took the tape without a word and left to go to the office.
After she left, a ghost of a smile played around Morris’s lips for the first time at the convention.
*
At almost exactly that moment, Minnie’s mother was in her hotel room, changing for the fancy-dress disco. She was pleased at how she looked in her old costume, so she thought she could try the same trick on Mervyn again.
Mervyn hadn’t turned up at their last autograph panel. Well, he wasn’t going to slip through her clutches as easily as that. They had had an interrupted assignation that she was determined they would keep.
Something was irritating her. Unusually, it wasn’t something that was on her long list of regular irritations: fans, ex-husbands, her agent, younger actresses, magazines that didn’t contain photos of her, and magazines that did contain photos of younger actresses. She had been tugging at her bra all day, trying to settle it into a position where it wasn’t showing, but the bra wasn’t having any of it; it was intent on peeping out of her low-cut blouse.
It was most odd—not least because she had her undergarments made especially for her. There was an exotic little shop in Portobello Road with a flame-red sign and provocatively dressed dummies in the window. Within its walls, pretty little men would crawl over her with tape measures, looping them around her bosom and hips and crawling up her thighs.
Anyway, enough was enough. She took off her blouse and peeled off the offending garment. It was too small as well. Large red marks decorated her body in a way she hadn’t seen since she’d gone out with that drug-splattered pop-star with an appetite for erotic flagellation. She looked inside the bra and realised what the problem was. This was a full-cup bra. She always wore half-cups, to keep as much of her womanly flesh as visible as possible. Inside was a ragged and faded name tag, an old relic from a dozen boarding schools and numerous excursions with the Territorial Army. It bore the words ‘Minnie Mycroft’. What?
*
Minnie levered open the screen of the camera and whizzed through the footage, guests and convention attendees jerking madly as they went about their business at high speed. Then she saw Mervyn and that other writer bloke, Andrew Jamieson, chatting in the dealers’ room, their backs to the camera. She was interested. She wondered what they were talking about. She slowed the camera down.
