Geek Tragedy (26 page)

‘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?’

*

Vanity couldn’t work out why she was wearing her daughter’s bra.

They didn’t share a room. They hadn’t even arrived at the convention together—the sulky little mare refused to drive there with her mother, using the predictable ‘You’ll just embarrass me mum’ whine of teenagers everywhere. She’d travelled up by train instead.

Very odd. She threw her mind back over the events of the past few days. She definitely knew she wasn’t wearing this bra during Friday’s autograph session, because she hadn’t been wearing one at all. That evening, before the fancy dress, she was positive she’d been wearing her beige half-cup instead of her black one because she didn’t want her underwear showing through her
Vixens
costume when she ambushed Mervyn that night.

Oh that’s right.When she ambushed Mervyn that night.

Oh yes. When she ambushed Mervyn.

That night. Oh.

‘Please forgive me,’ said Mervyn.

He raised his hands.

‘But could you all come down to the front please? There’s not enough of us to spread out.’ Mervyn only asked the dozen or so people to come closer so he could make absolutely sure Stuart wasn’t one of them.

No. He hadn’t turned up yet.

Mervyn sat in the middle as
de facto
chairman. The happily married writing partners Bob and Barbara Braintree dominated the south end of the table. Barbara was doing some knitting, Bob held the wool. At the north end, Andrew Jamieson had draped himself over a chair, arm propped up on the table, hand splayed in mid air, fingers curling around an imaginary cigarette.

The shape of these sessions would follow a pretty set pattern; someone would ask ‘Where do you get your ideas?’, that had them scratching their heads for five minutes (Andrew would say—only half-jokingly—that he stole his), and then some bright spark would ask Mervyn what a script editor actually did.

‘Hmm… I’ve heard a lot of script editors use all sorts of analogies to describe the job; sheep-dogs rounding up sheep, head chefs running a busy kitchen, conductors of an orchestra… I usually see myself as the soldier in the regiment who throws himself on the live hand grenade when it gets lobbed into his trench—particularly when I was lobbed scripts from this bloke here on my right.’

Mervyn would then try to explain what he did, and as what he did usually involved clearing up Andrew’s scripts, he usually used examples involving Andrew. The whole session would usually end with Mervyn and Andrew having a good-natured argument in front of a handful of attendees about who did what to whom.

‘Andrew’s scripts were always on the sketchy side. It was a case of “Here’s a title, fill in the blanks later.”’

‘You’re exaggerating, Merv.’

‘Last time we went for a curry, he handed me his menu. I thought it was the second draft of “Prison Planet”.’

There was a giggle around the room, which Andrew fed by pulling a mock distressed face. ‘You wound me Mervyn, you really do.’

‘I don’t think you realised what you put me through. I used to wake-up in cold sweats. I must be the only person ever to have flashbacks about things that hadn’t happened yet.’

‘Don’t believe you.’

‘Five words, Andrew: “Demons of the Outer Darkness”.’

‘“Demons of the Outer Darkness” didn’t need any work.’

‘No, you’re right. “Demons of the Outer Darkness” didn’t need any work. Those five words on the cover I didn’t have to change at all. It was the 6000 words on all the other pages that needed replacing. Namely because half the characters you’d written for had all died in the previous season.’

‘Well I didn’t have to watch the bloody thing as well, did I? That was your job.’

Mervyn addressed the tiny audience. ‘Lady and gentleman, to sum up, the most important part of a script editor’s job is to expect the unexpected.’

‘There he is! That’s the bastard!’ Vanity was standing in the back of the room, in full
Vixens from the Void
costume, holding a quivering finger in their direction. ‘That’s the man who ravished my daughter! Calls himself a man of letters? Mad old lecher more like! Old pervert! And I have proof!’ She was waving a bra in her other hand. The image of a vengeful Arkadia come to life, and wielding what appeared to be some kind of futuristic slingshot startled the fans.

Mervyn panicked and dived for cover underneath the table, wearing the edge of the tablecloth around his head like a burqa. Even though he was petrified with fear; he still noticed that at exactly the same moment he dived for cover, the
other
male members of the writers panel
also
hid under the table.

Arkadia charged into the room, knocking fans aside and upended the table, forcing Mervyn and the other men to scramble to their feet. He half ran, half crawled as he moved to the door. Vanity came after him, screaming obscenities. Burly stewards tried to rugby tackle her, but they were knocked aside too. Mervyn was near the door, finally, and dimly aware of the chaos exploding around him. He could hear Barbara Braintree shouting and screaming at Bob Braintree; the cosiest writing partnership in television was coming to an end behind him.

And then Vanity was there in front of him, throwing everything she could find on the desks, assaulting him with swearwords, pens and autograph books. Figurines and books rained down on him. A limited edition keyring caught him behind the ear and he went down, landing heavily on his knees. He knelt, ready for more punishment.

And then she wasn’t there.

He looked blearily up, and saw that Andrew Jamieson had pinned Vanity to the floor in an extremely rare act of heroism.

‘Get off me you…you hack bastard!’

‘Go!’ Andrew yelled. ‘Run! Save yourself!’

Mervyn ran.

He ran blindly to the lift, pressing the button, jabbing it repeatedly with his finger. The doors opened. He got in and waited for the doors to close, which they did with agonising slowness. And then the stiletto spike of a familiar
Vixens
80s style knee-length boot wedged itself into the shrinking gap, causing the doors to judder and widen. Vanity had caught up with him. He was trapped. Why hadn’t he just taken the stairs?

She got into the lift and slapped his face again and again, alternating hands like some bizarre alpine dance.

‘You bastard Mervyn!’

‘I’m sorry!’ He sank slowly to the floor. ‘I didn’t know she was your daughter!’

‘No excuse! How dare you prey on the young and innocent!’

‘Vanity that’s what I do! That’s what we both do!’

‘How dare you! You soiled my little Min! I’m going to kill you!’

‘You dried-up old bitch!’

That was another voice. Just outside the lift.

It was Katherine Warner—angry and tear-stained, eye shadow creeping down her cheeks and collecting above her nostrils.

‘Your bitch daughter killed my Smurf! You fucking bitches! You lied about him in your filthy book and you told her she was his daughter and she killed him for it! You couldn’t leave us alone, could you! You couldn’t let anyone be happy, miserable cow, you fucking bitch!’

Vanity had no intention of being talked to that way, even by a grieving girlfriend. ‘She
was
his daughter, darling! If he’d dealt with it instead of denying it and trying to cover his undersized arse with you, she wouldn’t have got so cross with him!’

‘Cross? She
murdered
him, you fucking insane, deluded, dried-up old bitch!’

In Mervyn’s experience, actresses didn’t have face-to-face cat-fights.

Until now.

He had never seen the screeching, face-slapping, cheek-scratching, hair-tugging or blouse-ripping found in 1970s British sex comedies.

Until now.

Katherine went for Vanity, red nails drilling into Vanity’s cheek. Vanity lunged and punched Katherine in the throat, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. Katherine kicked out, winding Vanity and forcing her to join Mervyn on the floor of the lift.

Mervyn, meanwhile, had been planning his escape. He crawled on the floor between them, edging forward like a sniper. Fortunately, Katherine was half-in, half-out of the lift, and the doors were juddering apart as they detected an obstruction.

He got to his knees and scrambled out of the lift, striking the button for the top floor as he did so. Vanity and Katherine were too intent on screaming, snarling and tearing expensive bits of clothing from each other to notice his escape.

Thankfully, the lift doors finally closed, shutting them off from Mervyn and sending them hurtling up and away. The lift made further stops, showing its semi-naked contents to fans as it journeyed to the highest point of the hotel. Some were shocked; some took photos; some stuck their hands deep in their pockets and walked awkwardly to their rooms to think about what they’d just seen.

He took the stairs up to his room, huffing with the exertion and panic. He rammed his pass key in the slot and clawed open the door with shaking fingers. He hurled his clothes into his suitcase, slammed it shut—still with shirt sleeves and ties poking cheerfully out of the edges—and pulled it off the bed, dragging it to the floor.

And then his bedside phone rang.

CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 3.00pm

EVENT: COSPLAY DISCO

LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)

EVENT: ‘ESCAPE TO FIRE’ EPISODE SCREENING

LOCATION: The Catacombs of Herath (video lounge—room 1024)

EVENT: HOW VIXENS FROM THE VOID IS BETTER THAN DOCTOR WHO—FAN PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew

LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)

Mervyn screamed, jumped a full three feet in the air, and dived for the phone, more to stop it making a noise than to find out who was calling.

Breathing heavily, heart jumping like an excited dog, he fell on the bed and put the receiver to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘I know, Mervyn.’ It was Minnie’s voice. Flat. Cold. Threatening.

‘What?’ he gasped, barely able to form words.

‘I know. About you and me…and my mother.’

Mervyn’s heart stopped. He was dead. He knew he was, because he was definitely floating on the ceiling, looking down at his corpse.

All he could think to say was a ‘No,’ and a ‘Listen, Minnie…’

‘I’m coming to get you, Mervyn. Get ready to run.’ Then a click, and the line went dead.

He threw the buzzing receiver on the table and grabbed his suitcase.

Mervyn ran.

CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 4.00pm

EVENT: COSPLAY DISCO

LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)

EVENT: ‘THE BRIDE OF KRELL’—EPISODE SCREENING

LOCATION: The Catacombs of Herath (video lounge—room 1024)

EVENT: VIXENS FROM THE VOID: A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW—EXPERT PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew

LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)

He ran down the stairs and stopped, panting and sweating as he looked down at the foyer. It was full of people in costumes; half of them were dressed as Arkadia. He could walk straight into Vanity or Minnie and not even know it.

He wouldn’t know it was them, but they’d know it was him. With his plain black jacket and trousers, he stood out like a goth at a glam rock concert.

Unless…

He had to get a disguise. If he wore a disguise, he could edge out of the door and they wouldn’t spot him

‘Hello Mr Stone!’

Mervyn cowered instinctively, but it was only Big-Nose Bob and Speccy Derek. They were once again in their purple make-up, overalls and bathing caps.

‘Look, we’re a Groolian delegation!’

‘Just like you said!’

Mervyn grabbed Big-Nose Bob by the lapels and held a purple ear to his mouth.

‘Do—you—have—more—of—that—purple—paint?’ he enunciated, over the sound of Simple Minds singing
Don’t You Forget About Me
.

‘What?’ said Bob. ‘Right here, in my pocket, in case I need a touch-up before the smoochie songs.’

‘Don’t want to look shabby for the ladies,’ said Speccy Derek.

‘Come with me,’ said Mervyn. He grabbed Derek with his other hand and dragged them to the lifts.

Inside the lift, Mervyn let go of them. They dusted themselves down and were getting ready to say something like ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Which was not easy when the person kidnapping them was a childhood hero.

Mervyn saved them the embarrassment. ‘Someone’s trying to kill me.’

‘What?’

‘Really?’

‘Well, I tell a lie. To be specific, there’s two people trying to kill me, but I think only one of them has actually murdered before and intends to kill me.’

‘Really?’

‘Wow.’

‘I need your help. I’m going to be part of your delegation. Hope you don’t mind.’

From the thrilled looks on Bob and Derek’s faces, they realised they were on the verge of a new
Vixens
anecdote, one so huge that they themselves could tell it at conventions for the rest of their lives.

It was too risky to go back to Mervyn’s room; Minnie was sure to have gone there first. They went up to the second floor and Derek’s room. It was strewn with clothes, and a large inflatable Styrax was in the corner performing some kind of sex act with a blow-up doll. The doll had the name ‘Medula’ written on it in marker pen.