by Helen Harper
‘How do you know about it?’ I asked, treading carefully. Contrary to expectations, I had actually read the files and I knew that the circumstances of Benjamin Albert’s death were being kept quiet by both Enchantment and the police. This might be a small town where gossip spread like wildfire but Gareth still knew that the victim had been decapitated and dismembered – and I was certain that little titbit had been withheld from all but those closest to the investigation. I’d avoided thinking about it too much; it was simply far too gruesome.
Gareth let out a tiny snarl. I inadvertently took a step back. ‘They didn’t tell you about me? I found him, didn’t I? Out looking for a lost sheep and…’ His voice drifted off and his pupils dilated as he remembered what were no doubt the horrors of unexpectedly come across a brutalised body.
Suddenly his night-time wandering and hip-flask gulping were starting to make sense. I winced. ‘I’m sorry.’
He dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel. ‘I gave up three years ago. I don’t even like nicotine.’ He bared his teeth and looked at me, his shoulders sagging slightly when he seemed to realise my sympathy for him was both heartfelt and honest. ‘Seeing something like that can make you question everything you think you know,’ he muttered.
I could well imagine. I pulled my shoulders back. Winter would probably be ecstatic that I’d already managed to make contact with a vital witness like Gareth. I had to tread very delicately, however. Judging by his state of mind, if I went in too hard or was too pushy I’d simply scare him off.
‘I know a little about what you’ve experienced,’ I said quietly, thinking of Adeptus Diall’s corpse which Winter and I had both seen. It still gave me the odd nightmare. ‘But nothing nearly as bad. If you ever want to talk about it, come and find me. Sometimes it can help to talk to a stranger and I don’t imagine there are many trauma counsellors up here.’
He blinked, as if surprised that I could care that much. I quashed my wave of sudden guilt. I was here to do a job, after all. I didn’t have to like it but if Winter and I were going to get to the bottom of the murders – and prevent any more from happening – I’d simply have to toughen up.
‘Thank you,’ Gareth said in a low voice. He pointed up the street. ‘All your colleagues are staying at the Hook and Eye. It’s about a mile down that way, just on the edge of town.’
A mile? Good grief. I choked back my response and murmured my thanks. ‘Come on, Brutus,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Let’s get a move on.’
Brutus didn’t answer, probably because he was fast asleep. It was alright for some, I huffed to myself. I waved to Gareth and shambled off. I really needed a bath and a bed. I might have only been sitting around on a train all day long but I still felt bone weary. At least I wasn’t like poor Gareth though, I mused, strengthening my resolve to do everything I could to find out just what in hell was going on here. Someone bloody did.
***
I was woken up by someone vigorously shaking my arm. For a strange, sleep-sodden moment, I thought it was Winter and I squeaked in dismay, attempting to shield myself from what could only be the icy onslaught of water about to be flung at my face. It took a moment or two for me to realise that my human alarm clock was speaking with a female voice. Somewhat belatedly I realised it had to be my room-mate, who’d already been crashed out by the time I’d arrived.
I peeked upwards cautiously, gazing up at the anxious face of a brunette. I swept my bleary gaze over her. Although she was wearing fairly casual clothes – jeans and a blouse – she looked remarkably smart. Her hair was carefully pulled back into a neat bun and the glasses that were perched on her nose were so shiny I could see my reflection in them.
‘Urrrgh,’ I said. It was supposed to be good morning but I knew that wasn’t what it sounded like, even to my own ears.
‘You need to get up,’ the woman urged, with wide, owl-like eyes. ‘The bus is leaving in ten minutes.’
I groaned. I had at least another seven minutes of snooze time then, I reckoned. My new roomie wasn’t giving in, however.
‘You’ve missed breakfast. I thought it would be better to let you sleep in. But Armstrong will fire you in a heartbeat if you keep everyone else waiting. The last runner got the boot just for forgetting to put milk in his coffee.’
I already knew that Armstrong was the new director of Enchantment and the man whose brainchild it was to shake up the usual format and include a survival element.
While I should have been concentrating on doing what I could to get up, given that he was the last person I wanted to annoy, it was the mention of coffee that really helped me out. I struggled up to a sitting position and looked around. There was indeed a small kettle in the corner. Maybe if I was quick…
‘I’m Amy,’ she said. She reached down and hefted my suitcase upwards, landing it on my knees with a painful thump. ‘Come on!’
‘Ivy,’ I murmured, giving her a half-hearted wave in greeting. ‘Can you put the kettle on, please?’
Amy threw me an anxious look. ‘There’s no time! I’ll see you down there. Remember, don’t be late!’ She all but sprinted out of the room, the door banging behind her as she left.
Well, she was energetic. I yawned and tried to pull myself together. ‘Brutus,’ I murmured. ‘Could you put the kettle on? I could really do with a coffee. The stronger the better.’
As far as I could tell, it was still pitch black outside. But then it wasn’t even 5am. I shuddered at the thought and unzipped the case, looking for something to wear.
‘Brutus?’
There was still no answer. I clipped on my bra, hooked a sweater over my head and glanced round. There didn’t seem to be any sign of him. I frowned. Contrary cat. Then the phone on the bedside rang, startling me so much I let out a strangled yelp.
‘Ivy,’ said Winter’s voice on the other end, ‘you need to get up now or this assignment is over before it’s even begun.’
I wrinkled my nose. Winter might make my toes curl up in delight every time I thought of him but did he have to sound quite so chipper this early?
‘How did you know I was still in bed?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘Are you watching me?’
‘I’m not anywhere near you. I’m staying somewhere else. I just know you, that’s all.’
I shook out a pair of jeans and wiggled into them at high speed. ‘Well,’ I tutted, ‘for your information, I’m wide-awake and raring to go. And I even made contact with an extra-special witness last night. I bet you didn’t manage that. His name is Gareth and…’
‘You can tell me later. Ivy, if you’re not on that bus in the next sixty seconds, then you’ll need to run.’ He hung up. Always with the running. I had the sinking sensation that I was going to very tired of that word very, very quickly.
I stood up, pulling the jeans up over my hips just as there was a loud toot from outside. The bus. Grimacing, I ran my hands through my hair, decided there was nothing else I could do about it and dashed out of the door.
The bus’s engine was already running and the seats were jam-packed with people. I received more than a few strange looks. When one of the more helpful passengers pointed down at my crotch, I realised it was because I’d not done up the zip. Grinning like an idiot, I pulled it up then squeezed into an empty seat.
Breathless, I smiled a quick hello at the woman next to me and checked the rest of my attire. My sweater was on inside out. Oops. Shrugging, I pulled it off, doing what I could not to elbow the woman in the process, turned it right the way around and pulled it back over my head. Nobody blinked an eye – but then this was the world of reality television. They were probably used to displays of nudity.
‘I slept in,’ I told my companion unnecessarily, once I’d righted myself.
‘So I see,’ she murmured. She glanced down at my ID, which I’d just managed to grab in time. Apparently clocking that I was no one of consequence, she turned away and looked out of the window instead. I’d have thought she was being rude if it weren’t
for the fact that that no one on the bus was talking. It was almost as if we were monks on a vow of silence. Either that, or nobody here was a morning person. Suited me.
The bus trundled its way out of the town and down a single-track road. I shook out my hair and craned my neck round to look at the other passengers, wondering whether there was anyone I could recognise on board. It appeared that Belinda Battenapple, the host of Enchantment, and the other on-screen regulars, including the enigmatic Trevor Bellows, enjoyed other transportation. I hadn’t missed a single episode of Enchantment in my life and I would have blithely walked past any of these people on the bus without recognising them. That was probably a good thing.
Warning myself that acting star-struck probably wouldn’t be a good idea even if I did meet Belinda, I settled back into my seat and closed my eyes. I was just drifting back to sleep again when the bus came to a juddering halt.
‘Briefing in two!’ yelled an overly enthusiastic bloke towards the front. ‘Let’s get moving, people!’
I heaved myself up and followed everyone else off the bus, trying to appear as if I knew exactly what I was doing. It didn’t last long. The second I stepped outside and got a good look around the set, all my attempts at looking nonchalant fell by the wayside.
People were scurrying about everywhere, some carrying equipment, others clipboards. There had to be at least forty of them, and every single one was busy. From almost every angle, I could see the trademarked Enchantment signs emblazoned across lorries and cars and strung up between trees. I stood in the centre of it all, gawking like an idiot with my mouth hanging open.
‘The main quad!’ the man from the bus shouted. ‘Now!’
All at once, everyone seemed to stop what they were doing and head off. There were some grumbles; it appeared I wasn’t the only one who didn’t appreciate early rising. I kept hoping someone would tell me where I could find the industrial-strength coffee; instead we were ushered forward where an elaborate stage was already set up.
A harried-looking woman clambered up with the aid of a few of the others before grabbing hold of a bullhorn and facing all of us. ‘Good morning!’ she bellowed. ‘And welcome to the very first day of filming for Enchantment: Highlander edition!’
If she’d been expecting a raucous response, she was sorely mistaken. There was some ragged applause but no one appeared particularly thrilled by her words. Unlike me: I whooped loudly, ignoring the frowns I received from the people around me. There were a few eye-rolls as well but I smiled happily. This was brilliant. It took a lot to get me to smile before 11am but being on set for Enchantment was definitely enough.
Someone from the side of the stage called up to the woman. She nodded and yelled into the bullhorn again. ‘Now for our esteemed director and man of the hour, Morris Armstrong!’
This time, the applause was slightly more enthusiastic. For some reason, however, I still got the impression that it was because of what was expected rather than out of any real desire to cheer on the supposed captain of the most popular show on television.
I watched with interest as a large man leapt onto the stage. With his back to the crowd, he murmured something to the woman. From behind me, I heard someone else mutter, ‘Apparently he’s in a bad mood. He was down south completing some last-minute budget negotiations and couldn’t get first-class tickets for the train yesterday, so he had to join the rest of the cattle instead.’
There was a choked snigger. A bout of snaking dread assailed me. Uh-oh. Then, when Morris Armstrong turned round to face us, I bit my lip and raised my eyes to the heavens. Of course, the new director was the man who’d sat beside me on the train and who I’d managed to chase away with my supposed bad smell. Not only had I missed the perfect opportunity to find out more about what was going on, I’d made him think I was walking petri dish that should be avoided at all costs.
I slumped my shoulders in a bid to hide from his roving eyes. The chances were that I wouldn’t have to go near him; I was just a lowly runner and completely beneath his attention. The likelihood that he was involved in the murder was slim to none.
I dreaded to think would Winter would say if I was given the boot before I even managed to open my mouth – although his icy irritation on the train was now making more sense.
Armstrong didn’t bother with the bullhorn. ‘I know most of you have been here for a few weeks already completing pre-interviews with the talent and setting everything up. I also know that things have been more difficult than they should have been and that there have been … complications.’ Complications? Well, that was one way of describing a horrific murder, I thought. ‘The police are still investigating the matter and I urge you to give them your full cooperation.’
He nodded over to a small contingent at the side who, now I looked at them more closely, did appear more grimly official than any of the film crew. ‘However,’ Armstrong continued to shout, ‘nothing will stop Enchantment. We are the best television series on this planet! We have millions of viewers! We are going to go from success to success and nothing is going to stop us.’
There should have been someone in the back with a drum kit. At the very least he deserved a cymbal crash to add to his dramatic flair.
‘You all know what to do and what needs to be done. At precisely midday the talent will arrive and the cameras will start rolling. We are making history, people! Don’t you forget it!’ With that, Armstrong punched the air and left the stage.
Mrs Bullhorn returned to her spot, clapping the director ostentatiously as he walked away. ‘Wonderful, just wonderful! We’re so lucky to have such a hands-on director. All runners need to report directly to Armstrong’s trailer now as he wants to brief you all in person. The rest of you get back to work!’
Arse.
Chapter Four
There were three other runners besides myself. One was Amy, my helpful room-mate, while the two others looked young enough to have just stepped out of high school. I eyed the first one’s acne and shook his hand when he introduced himself with a mumble as Mazza. I sincerely doubted that was the name his parents had christened him with.
The other one was almost as posh as Tarquin, with the kind of floppy hair and expensive clothes that marked him out as defiantly upper class. I was betting that he was called George or William or Henry but, when he gave his name as Moonbeam, it took everything I had to maintain a straight face. That couldn’t be his real name – could it? He was clearly used to painful reactions at his name, judging by the way he rolled his eyes at my stifled smirk, but at least he seemed to be enjoying himself.
We hustled towards a large silver contraption that I took to be Morris Armstrong’s trailer. I did my best to stay behind the others but, with only four of us, it was obvious that I couldn’t stay hidden for long.
Moonbeam took the lead, marching up the steps and knocking on the door. There was a muffled yell from inside and he shrugged then entered with the rest of us on his heels.
The trailer’s interior was considerably more spacious and luxurious than I imagined. I gazed round in awe at the plush decorating and shiny surfaces. I could easily live like this, I decided.
I wasn’t the only one who was impressed. Mazza’s expression was something akin to a small child being introduced to ice cream for the first time. He let out a low whistle and then blushed immediately. He flicked a quick look at Amy and blushed even more. I decided that I liked him the most.
Armstrong appeared from the far end, wiping his hands on a towel. He tossed it to the floor and stared at our little group as if he’d completely forgotten the reason why he’d asked us here. Then his expression cleared. ‘You’re the runners.’
Moonbeam again stepped forward. ‘We are.’ He put out his hand. ‘I’m Moonbeam.’
Armstrong gazed at him with a blank face. ‘No, you’re not.’
‘I am. It’s a strange name but…’
The director held up a palm and Moonbeam fell silent. ‘I will not call anyone Moonbeam. You are N
umber One. That is what you will answer to from now on.’ He pointed at Amy then at Mazza. ‘Number Two. Number Three.’ His head turned to me. As soon as he registered my face, his mouth snapped shut.
‘Number Four,’ I offered helpfully, in case his arithmetic had suddenly deserted him.
Armstrong’s eyes narrowed. I held my breath and waited for him to throw me unceremoniously off his set. Instead he muttered something under his breath and gave a barely perceptible nod. He recognised me from the train – of that there was no doubt – but for some reason he was declining to mention it just yet.
‘Your job is going to be the most vital of all,’ he barked. ‘You might only be runners but everyone has to start somewhere. I was once like you, you know.’ His eyes took on a faraway cast as if he were fondly remembering his golden days of being a dogsbody when he didn’t have to worry about large gleaming trailers and lots of money.
Armstrong shook himself. ‘As runners, you have access to all areas. Naturally we have security on hand to deter any trophy hunters or rabid fans or,’ he shuddered, ‘the press. But that doesn’t mean that the more cunning of them will not find ways of gaining access. This is supposed to be a closed set. In my experience there is no such thing. This area was chosen because of its longstanding historical links to witchcraft. It’s certainly not the sort of place I would have chosen if I’d had the choice. There are simply too many opportunities for outsiders to sneak in. We can’t completely barricade ourselves off. More’s the pity.’
Amy nervously raised her hand. ‘Sir? Mr Armstrong?’
‘What is it?’ he barked.
‘Doesn’t everyone have identification tags?’
He drew himself up, looming over her in an almost sinister fashion. ‘That’s what makes their kind so insidious! And where you come in. One of your tasks will be keep track of those tags. You will frequently be approached by crew members who have misplaced their badges. I have already sent out an email to everyone. If your ID tag is lost, then so are you.’ He glared at her as if she’d already dared to forget her own. ‘Got that? There will be no duplications or replacements. I will not have my set sullied by anyone not of the industry who might have stolen a tag for their own ends.’