DVD Extras Include: Murder (The Mervyn Stone Mysteries, #2)

by Nev Fountain

  Why not?

  Well, as a Christian… Well… Obviously we believe that homosexuals—as you call them—have free will, and encourage us to judge them by ignoring the word of God. It is their free will to be…what they are… So they can hardly call themselves oppressed—any more than a burglar can call himself oppressed by the law.

  But you choose to be a Christian? So by your logic you’re not oppressed either.

  To not choose the word of God is a sin. There is no choice in the matter.

  Some argue that no one chooses to be a homosexual.

  Well, ‘some people’ are mistaken. I’m sorry, I thought I was here to talk about our grievances.

  The news presenter had enjoyed poking Lewis Bream with a stick in the hope he’d say something outrageous, but the fun was now over. The BBC Trust members were watchful, and might take a dim view of an ‘oppressed minority’ being hounded out of a BBC studio. The presenter reluctantly steered the interview back on course.

  So why are you demonstrating outside the BBC?

  The BBC is planning to release on DVD a piece of drama which we deem unacceptable and blasphemous.

  This is the 80s BBC sci-fi series Vixens from the Void?

  That’s correct.

  What’s wrong with it?

  The episode in question depicts Christianity as a joke. I’d say that’s offensive in anyone’s book. Particularly the good one.

  The BBC have released a statement saying that…

  The presenter glanced down at her notes.

  ‘The episode in question was making a satirical point about how religion can get misunderstood and distorted by its own worshippers. By no stretch of the imagination can it be seen to be a specific attack on one religion.’

  Well, that’s nonsense isn’t it? It’s a specific attack on Christianity.

  But the protest today—what’s the point? It was shown back in the 80s. Haven’t millions of people already seen when it first went out on television?

  That’s true, but those were less enlightened times back then. It was the era of Dennis Potter and so-called ‘alternative comedy’. The BBC didn’t think twice about insulting the Christian community. We think that two wrongs don’t make a right. There is no need to rub decent people’s noses in it by making it freely available in our high streets.

  But surely, the only people who are going to buy this release are a few thousand fans? Your public protests will only ensure that more people will buy it to see what the fuss is about.

  It’s the principle. We’ve got to make a point. If this sort of trash gets released by the BBC without comment, then the BBC—which is publicly funded with our money, let’s remember—then they’ll think it’s business as usual when releasing blasphemy into our shops. Were this a Muslim play I’m sure the attitude of the BBC would be very different…

  Lewis Bream, thank you.

  * * *

  Mervyn slumped lower and lower in his chair, disappearing inside the folds of his jacket. He always knew that ‘The Burning Time’ flew close to the wind (indeed, there were complaints at the time) but he sort of hoped that no one would mind the DVD release, that it would slip out on the nod because it was an episode of a trashy, inconsequential piece of sparkly nonsense. Obviously he was being too optimistic.

  News 24 moved on to another story, and Mervyn didn’t find much of interest on the other screens (an Australian was shouting at another Australian on one, and an unrealistically happy girl was singing a song with a puppet on another).

  Pulling his attention away, he saw a familiar face. Brian Crowbridge, tomato-cheeked hell-raising actor of the old school was embedded in one of the chairs that dominated the reception area. He was a large, shaggy beast with thick grey hair and pale watery eyes. He looked like an Old English sheepdog in a suit and tie, dressed up and ready to play snooker with all the other anthropomorphic dogs.

  Brian had looked very different in the late 80s, when he played a stubble-cheeked boffin called Professor Daxatar, a galactic archaeologist who was excavating a site on Herath; the planet where ‘The Burning Time’ was set.

  He had been handsome in a roguish way, more inclined to be cast as a bit of rough than square-jawed hero. More Lady Chatterley’s Lover than Casanova. He was a bit stocky by the standards of leading men these days, but nevertheless had been deluged by letters from lascivious housewives. However, as Mervyn knew, if you took anyone with eyes, a nose and some of their own teeth and put them on television with enough frequency, they were bound to become a sex symbol of some description. Mervyn gave a rather self-conscious wave to gain Brian’s attention, but Brian was also transfixed by the television screens.

  Mervyn groped in his pockets, pulled out some scrunched up sweet wrappers and threw them at Brian. After being hit on the ear a few times, Brian finally got the message, looked up, grinned delightedly at Mervyn, and ambled over.

  ‘Brian!’

  ‘Hello Merv. Haven’t seen you since… Well…’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Well, it must be…since we did the telly.’

  ‘Oh yes. It must be…’

  Shortly after appearing in Vixens, Crowbridge had had a very public breakdown. He left his wife, was outed in the tabloids as gay, confessed to a debauched lifestyle involving drink, drugs and a young Conservative named Tarquin, dried out, found God, lost God, got drunk again, crashed two cars and went back to his wife. It was quite a fortnight.

  Since then, things had never quite settled. For Brian, life was like a snow-smothered mountain during the spring thaw. It didn’t take much to set off an avalanche and sending everything plunging back into the abyss. The last thing that prompted the ritual of drugs-booze-tearful apology was Tarquin’s AIDS related death a few months back. Brian started drinking at the wake, and never really stopped. The last time Mervyn saw Brian, he was on the front of a Sunday newspaper, half-naked, covered in vomit, having been thrown out of a restaurant at one a.m. for screaming at the staff, demanding a good Chardonnay and scallops in Madeira. Whether the good people of Burger King managed to provide him with such things, the article didn’t say.

  ‘Madness, Merv.’ Brian twitched his head.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ Mervyn was mystified.

  ‘Madness, Merv. Out there. All that nonsense.’ There went the head twitch again. A bigger one. His left eye spasmed in sympathy.

  Mervyn stared, then realised with a flood of relief that the twitch was in the direction of the protesters outside. ‘Oh, them! I thought…’

  Brian caught the look in Mervyn’s eye. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mervyn. I feel much better now. Went straight into a loony bin for a good long rest. The head doctors had a right old rummage up here,’ he tapped his head. ‘I’m just as sane as I ever was.’ As if to punctuate this, his head and eye twitched again. This time it was not a ‘look over there’ twitch. Definitely a good old-fashioned mad twitch for its own good old-fashioned mad sake.

  Before Mervyn had a chance to dwell on the horror of Brian being restored to his usual level of sanity, a huge roar of rage went up from the crowd outside. The sea of protesters had suddenly been whipped up into a typhoon.

  The main attraction had arrived. A sleek black chauffeur-driven limousine had glided up to the entrance. The number plate read ‘GOD L35S’.

  ‘Good grief,’ muttered Brian. ‘What the blazes is going on?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brian and Mervyn half stood, craning their necks to see what was happening, but the crowd had surged forward, blocking their view. Nevertheless, Mervyn had a pretty shrewd idea of who was emerging from the car.

  Of course, thought Mervyn. It all makes sense now. That’s why they’re all making a big deal out of this. It’s all part of their vendetta with Marcus.

  The huge revolving doors spun and a man glided smoothly into reception, like a magician emerging from his sparkly cabinet. An expensive coat hung about his shoulders, as did two heavily made-up personal assistants and a thuggish looking mind
er.

  Marcus Spicer. Millionaire, ex-TV scriptwriter, and now an energetic proponent of blasphemous propaganda (as the Godbotherers would put it) using his provocative novels.

  He brushed some imaginary dust off his shoulders as he was greeted by an insanely tall, thin man, with a queasy, panic-stained smile on his face.

  ‘Mr Spicer?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, sir.’ The man started to blurt out apologies for the protesters, but Marcus waved him silent with a regal hand.

  ‘Bit of a fracas outside, eh? Well it gets them out of the house. Can’t say I’m not used to it. Goes with the territory.’

  He was in the process of being ushered to the inner doors when he caught Mervyn’s eye. Marcus’s face blossomed with delight and he made a beeline for him.

  Mervyn didn’t know who was more intimidating; the protesters, or Marcus bearing down on him with his flunkies and assistants flanking him like an advancing rugby team. Mervyn found his hand engulfed in a warm handshake. ‘Mervyn, me old mate, how the devil are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘How wonderful to see you again.’ He flashed a winning smile at Brian. ‘And Crowbridge, too! The gang’s all here, I see. Great! I can see this is going to be loads of fun…’

  They were about to dip into small talk when Marcus spotted a famous actress on the other side of the foyer. He changed direction at once. ‘Marjory! How the devil are you! How wonderful to see you again…’

  Mervyn and Brian watched him go, minder and personal assistants scuttling after him. There was a certain amount of undignified struggling at the internal revolving doors, but a side door was quickly opened to let them all through.

  It was only after they dispersed that Mervyn could see a formidable-looking woman taking up the rear. She was in a plain, off-the-peg trouser suit and simple blouse. Her pale milky face had a calm neutral expression, which contrasted with her severe hairstyle; a bob so businesslike it probably concealed a zip-up pocket to keep important documents flat. It was Joanna Paine, the ball-buster who was Marcus’s agent. And used to be Mervyn’s.

  She sauntered past Mervyn and Brian and arched a playful eyebrow in Mervyn’s direction.

  ‘Mervyn,’ she said with a slight grin.

  ‘Joanna,’ Mervyn said, coolly. She didn’t even slow down.

  ‘Well that was short and sweet,’ said Mervyn, looking after Joanna’s retreating rump.

  Brian hadn’t seen Mervyn and Joanna’s exchange and thought he was talking about Marcus. ‘Well, after all, he is a leading man now,’ grinned Brian. ‘I’ve seen his type before when I did the theatre. Always on duty. Always performing.’

  ‘Great,’ muttered Mervyn, transforming himself into a very passable impression of Marcus. ‘I can see this going to be loads of fun…’

  * * *

  ‘Mr Stone? Mr Crowbridge?’

  The spindly man who had guided Marcus in had returned.

  ‘That’s us.’

  ‘Good to see you. Sorry you were kept waiting,’ he said, proffering a translucent collection of bones which passed for a hand. Mervyn took it cautiously, afraid he might snap it.

  ‘No problem… Robert isn’t it?’ said Brian, checking his sheet of paper.

  ‘Trevor, actually. Trevor Simpson. Sorry.’ He flinched, and blushed. ‘Robert’s upstairs. He’s dealing with a problem. Sorry.’

  ‘Is that why we’re running late?’

  ‘Sorry, no. That’s me. I had to organise passes for Mr Spicer and his staff, and show him to his dressing room. Sorry.’

  Dressing room? Thought Mervyn disbelievingly. We’re recording a bloody DVD commentary, not doing Strictly Come Dancing.

  ‘I thought it best to get them in and settled before I attended to you.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Sorry about the circumstances. Glad you managed to run the gauntlet.’

  ‘Oh, that lot out there?’ chortled Brian. ‘One or two of them recognised me, and one came at me with a sharpened leaflet but… Thankfully, no paper cuts.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Trevor seemed mortified. He looked at Mervyn. ‘Were you bothered?’

  ‘There are very, very, very few advantages to being a writer. One of those very, very, very few advantages is relative anonymity.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘They don’t know I’m me.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. Sorry. Of course.’ Trevor never stopped apologising, Mervyn remembered. He was a machine powered by perpetual cringing. It’s no wonder when I first met him and tried to store his name in my head, I nicknamed him ‘Simpering’ Simpson.

  ‘Not every writer is as anonymous as you, Merv,’ said Brian, pointedly nodding his head in the direction of Marcus Spicer’s exit.

  ‘No. Not every writer. That’s very true.’ Even though Mervyn fought hard to keep it out of his voice, his words were seasoned with irritation.

  The conversation lulled, and Trevor leapt mindlessly in. ‘Anyway, really glad you could find us…’

  ‘I have actually been here before,’ snapped Mervyn.

  Trevor ‘Simpering’ Simpson paled and almost shrivelled into his suit as he realised what he was saying. ‘Oh sorry. Of course you have. Stupid of me. You’ve done some commentaries for us before.’

  Mervyn kept snapping. ‘And I made the show here. And I worked here for 11 years. I had an office and a wastepaper basket and everything.’

  ‘Oh God. Of course. You made the show here. Sorry. Of course you did. Sorry. What an idiot I am. Sorry. I’ll organise some passes for you.’

  After a few seconds with the cheery ladies on the front desk, they were granted access to the inner sanctum. The shiny steel and glass décor gave way to grubby white corridors stretching away into the distance, adorned with pictures of shiny shows, shiny stars and shiny awards.

  As they walked, Brian sidled up to Mervyn. ‘Bit tetchy, Merv?’

  ‘Who me?’

  ‘I thought you and Spicer were old drinking buddies.’

  Mervyn really didn’t want to talk about it—especially not to a crazed old ham like Crowbridge. ‘Oh it’s nothing, Brian. All in the past. Old scars never completely heal. You of all people know that.’

  That was uncalled for, Mervyn admitted to himself guiltily, but at least it shut Brian up.

  * * *

  There was a long wait, as only two of the four lifts were working (Mervyn remembered that two lifts were being repaired the day he left the BBC in 1994. He wondered if they were the same ones). They eventually headed up to the floor where the recording suites were located, through another set of long winding corridors; left, right, through doors, past a Costa Coffee, through more doors and more even narrower corridors. Mervyn whiled away the time negotiating his way around the building by conjuring up a meeting between the head of the BBC and the architect.

  Head of BBC:

  The thing is, Mr Architect, we haven’t a hope of competing with these ITV chappies. They’ll wave their chequebooks, poach all our talent and they’ll all be off to the independent sector before you can say ‘licence fee’.

  Architect:

  I see, and what can I do about it?

  Head of BBC:

  Just make it impossible for the buggers to find their way out of the building, won’t you?

  Mervyn glanced uneasily at Brian, whose face was blooming into a beautiful shade of magenta.

  There was certainly a hint of the laboratory experiment in the way the BBC was laid out. Mervyn half expected to arrive at his destination and find a piece of cheese waiting for him. Or, more likely, to get punished for arriving at the wrong destination by finding some nasty surprise waiting for them.

  A few more turns, a few more doors, and finally, the end was in sight. And there was a nasty surprise waiting for them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Just when the corridors couldn’t get any narrower, their way was blocked by two figures having a very animated discussion that was
teetering on the edge of a stand-up row.

  One was the short, stocky and bald form of Robert Mulberry. Mervyn could see the distinctive goatee beard that sprouted out of his chin, a useful metaphor for Robert’s famously bristly temper.

  Mervyn had already done quite a few DVD commentaries with Robert. Many of the less personality-challenged Vixens fans had managed to get jobs where they could live out their fantasies. Mervyn found them everywhere: magazine editors, actors, writers, special effects technicians and, in the case of Robert, DVD producers. Mervyn wondered why, with so many fans in powerful jobs in the media, he still couldn’t get any work.

  The other man towered over him. He had a huge bald head and a big greying beard, like an angry Father Christmas. It was a very familiar form. Like Robert, he was another ‘professional’ fan. And a far less welcome one.

  Oh God. It’s Graham Goldingay.

  Graham was a superfan; an odd character who’d managed to inveigle his way into the lives of ex-members of the Vixens production team. A founder member of VAS (the Vixens Appreciation Society), he turned out to be a shrewd businessman, starting a small production company. Soon he was making all manner of Vixens-related merchandise: cheap videos comprising interviews with the stars and low-budget dramas, all featuring actors from Vixens. When he was on his uppers, Mervyn had been persuaded to write a few. A decision he deeply regretted.

  The problem with Graham was, once he’d got a celebrity’s name safely in his Rolodex, the phone never stopped ringing; requests to attend dinners, appeals for old scripts, demands for interviews. The word ‘No’ wasn’t in his dictionary; neither were the words ‘perhaps’, ‘maybe’ and ‘possibly’. In fact, the word ‘yes’ barely counted—unless it was coupled with the word ‘now’.

  As the years passed, Graham’s tinpot operation grew into an impressive media empire. Now he had money and time to pursue his first love in grandiose ways: hosting celebrity auctions, celebrity dinners and celebrity cricket matches—all Vixens-themed, and all for charity. The demands on Mervyn and other fading stars grew ever more extravagant, and ever harder to turn down.