Geek Tragedy

by Nev Fountain

  He looked down. Nope, they were still there. He could have sworn her eyes had just scorched the buttons off his shirt.

  ‘So how does your book tame Simon Josh?’

  ‘Read it and find out, darling. It’s very reasonably priced on Amazon. Apparently they’ve taken 40% off me—just like my second husband. Bastard. Anyway, time to open shop. The barbarians are massing at the gates.’ She gestured towards the doorway. Through it, Mervyn could see that her entrance had been noted and the ordered queue was swelling into a sizeable crowd.

  ‘Looks like you’re going to have your work cut out getting through that lot,’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘Yes. One does yearn for a shorter name, Sue Bloggs or something chavvy like that. Writing “Vanity Mycroft” a thousand times in a row does make the fingers ache somewhat.’

  ‘Worth it though. It’s a great name. Unusual too.’

  ‘Thank you darling. And it’s my real one, you know. Not a stage name. If you read my autobiography you’ll find that out…’

  ‘I’ll make it a top priority.’

  ‘…But I’ll tell you anyway, darling. It’s all down to a quaint family tradition we Mycrofts have, of naming our children where they were conceived.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of a village called Vanity.’

  ‘Not quite, dear. I was spawned during a desperate fumble in a Cardiff dressing room. My mother was playing Becky Sharp in an ill-advised tour of plays adapted from classic English novels. This one was Vanity Fair—hence my name. Vanity Mycroft.’ She took another drag. ‘Should count my lucky stars they weren’t doing Fanny Hill.’

  Mervyn looked again at the queue. All eyes were focused in her direction. ‘I don’t envy you, the amount of “Vanity Mycroft”s you’re going to have to write today.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry about me, Mervy…’ She gave him a smouldering look. ‘…As well you know, I happen to have very supple wrists…’

  She swung round and took a photo from the simpering girl who had scurried in front of her, lucky enough to be at the head of the queue. ‘Thank you, dear. Ooh! That’s a good photo. I like that one.’ The fan blushed with gratitude at the compliment. Same old Vanity, thought Mervyn. Able to switch from pleasure to business and back again as quickly as the hotel rooms above them.

  ‘So what are you doing at the moment, dear?’

  The fan muttered, ‘Well, I’m thinking of doing a physics degree at Middle—’

  ‘Not you dear, I was talking to Mervyn here. Anything interesting?’

  ‘Well, ahm…’

  ‘I just know you’re writing a lovely big telly show, with a smashing part just for me.’

  ‘Actually Vanity, I’ve been a bit out of the telly loop recently…’

  ‘God,’ she sighed, ‘not you as well! Andy Jamieson has just left The Bill, Nicholas is touring the nether regions of the country… What’s the point in cultivating all these contacts, having to pretend to be nice to you during the series, when you all give up being useful to me?’

  ‘I was thinking of writing a book.’

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘It’s not for any publisher yet, it’s for myself really…’

  ‘Not you, Merve dear.’ Vanity was talking to the fan again. ‘Who shall I put it to, darling?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The name dear, who’s it to?’

  ‘Just the signature please.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Vanity signed her name with a casual flourish. The girl gave a nervous nod of gratitude, bypassed Mervyn with a simpering grin, and asked for the autograph from the man on Mervyn’s left; the actor who played one-third of a crab creature in 1988. The left claw, apparently.

  She jerked a thumb at the fan’s retreating form. ‘Another bloody gold-digger. That’ll be on eBay come the morning.’

  ‘Surely not.’ To Mervyn, the fan looked like a sweet little thing. Shame she bypassed him. He remembered now that he always got overweight, intense men who wanted to discuss plot holes.

  ‘She didn’t ask for a dedication. Dead giveaway. Can’t flog them if they’ve got, “To Mildred and her pet cat Nibbles, lots of love Vanity, kissy kiss kiss” on the bottom.’

  ‘Oh’, said Mervyn. ‘She seemed nice.’

  ‘Same old Mervyn. Always thinking with this,’ she suddenly grabbed his crotch and gave a little tickle under his scrotum with a long pointed fingernail. ‘Can’t blame her though. More power to her elbow. We’re all here to make money. Just look at these…’ She indicated the photos. They were prints of Vixens publicity shots; Vanity laughing at the camera with the other characters carefully cropped off; shots of her pointing her gun aggressively at nothing in particular, shots of her in a tight T-shirt leaning casually on a shiny new Styrax.

  ‘These are…um…’

  ‘£15 for an eight-by-ten black and white, £20 for a ten-by-twelve black and white, add a fiver on both prices for colour.’

  ‘Very nice…’

  Vanity made a dismissive snort. ‘Titty pics for the lonely mummy’s boys and the fat lezzers.’ Mervyn had to concede that an inordinate amount of the waiting fans were either pale scrawny men in black T-shirts, or extremely sturdy women who seemed to have left their necks at home. ‘Ah! It’s these that I want to sell, darling…come to mummy!’

  She held her hands out, as a man rushed in with piles of books and deposited them on the table. The thin-faced girl instantly sprang to her feet and started to arrange them like battlements in front of Vanity. Mervyn picked one up. It was a chunky tome; the sort that appeared in huge displays by the tills in supermarkets and in airport bookshops. In gold embossed lettering (so italicised it was hardly legible) was the title:

  Vixen to Fly

  My autobiography

  Vanity Mycroft

  *

  If the title wasn’t very inspiring, the cover certainly was. It was an ‘artistic’ black and white photo. Vanity was draped across the Styrax Superior prop like a model in a motor show, completely naked. She was lying over the front of it with her feet in the air behind her, crossed playfully at the ankles. Her head was cradled on the backs of her hands, a pose beloved of 60s models (and very typically Vanity) with her arms resting on the bonnet, elbows conveniently covering the nipples.

  Her face, complete with wicked grin and arched eyebrows, looked up at him. Apart from a few tell-tale liver spots on her hands and the neck starting to do a Bernard Matthews, she looked like the old Vanity he’d known and fondled.

  ‘Put it down carefully darling. It’s very explosive. It could go off in your hand.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Mervyn put the book down.

  ‘It’s certainly ruffling a few feathers,’ she drawled on in a bored voice. ‘Apparently some people don’t like to be reminded what naughty little boys they used to be…’ Her eyes flicked momentarily to William ‘Smurf’ Smurfett, pushing his Styrax prop out of the room and down the corridor. He was very small, and the prop looked very big. Smurf didn’t look very happy. Many fans offered to help, but he batted them away like moths.

  ‘…And, alas, I had to take a few things out. The lawyers, God help their twisted little knickers, went on about this and that, blah blah, you can’t say this about X, you can’t reveal that about Y, and Z might get upset if you said blah… I say to them, X was a shit, Y was a poof and Z was a gullible idiot, and they say prove it, and I say Y shagged Z in Y’s dressing room and X shopped them to the tabloids. But will they admit I’ve got a point? Will they buggery boll—’

  Vanity stopped in mid-sentence, staring off to her left. Puzzled, Mervyn followed her gaze, and soon realised why. Near the head of the queue there was a handsome young man in his 20s, with clear brown eyes and spiky blonde hair. He was wearing white chinos and a black t-shirt, impressively filled by his tidy physique. He was carrying a big black satchel.

  The effect on Vanity was instantaneous. Like Jekyll and Hyde in reverse, the crabby old chain-smoker disappeared and was replaced by the dazzling en
chantress who smiled out of the covers of TV listings magazines in the 80s and 90s. But to the bewilderment of Vanity—and the utter astonishment of Mervyn—the young man bypassed her and stopped at Mervyn, his face a picture of hero-worship.

  ‘Mr Stone, I wondered if you could sign this for me?’ He put down a big glossy picture. It was a computer-generated montage of Mervyn surrounded by creatures from Vixens from the Void—a Styrax, a Maaganoid, a Gorg, and a Groolian.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Mervyn, as flustered as the breathless fan appeared to be. He tried to remember how he wrote his signature. ‘You certainly took your time over this.’

  ‘I had the most trouble finding a nice photo of you. Most of the ones I found on the internet had you looking a bit gormless, or your hair was too mad.’

  The photo was indeed a good photo. It was a moody black and white one, with Mervyn leaning forward into the camera, his hand thoughtfully resting on his chin and hiding his jowls.

  ‘Well it’s a good photo of me. I had that done for my book sleeve.’

  ‘Yes, when is that coming out? I’ve been scouring Amazon for years.’

  ‘Just in the final stages of proofreading,’ Mervyn lied. He looked at the picture in frank disbelief. ‘I don’t think anyone’s made anything like this of me before.’

  ‘You changed my life,’ said the boy simply. ‘I’ve followed your career incredibly closely.’

  ‘Which is more than I ever did.’

  ‘I can name you all your career highlights.’

  That won’t take long, thought Mervyn. ‘Oh really? What’s your favourite highlight?’

  ‘Oh, definitely the bit when you caught Bernard Viner for stealing from the set and got him sacked.’

  ‘Um… Oh.’

  ‘I loved your whodunnit episode in series three, “Hyperdeath”, when the murderer turns out to be the malfunctioning robot… But when I found out that you actually did some actual detective work in real life? That was amazing!’

  ‘Well, I don’t really like to talk about that,’ muttered Mervyn, casting a nervous glance over at Bernard’s corner.

  ‘But wasn’t it just amazing? Gosh! I’m definitely coming to your panel after this. Just imagine…you and Bernard actually on the same stage together…’

  ‘What?’ He should have looked at his schedule more carefully.

  ‘It should be, oh, just great!’

  Oh, just great.

  Mervyn picked up a pen. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Stuart. Oh, sorry. You mean for the autograph. Well actually, could you not put Stuart…’

  On the very edge of his peripheral vision, he could see Vanity mouthing ‘eBay’.

  ‘Could you put, “To Stu, from a fellow sleuth, best wishes, Mervyn Stone.”’

  The young man held the resulting signature close to his face with an awed fascination.

  ‘Gosh thanks. This is great.’ His eyes flicked around it, as if he was mentally absorbing every dash and squiggle. ‘This is really great. Thanks. Great. Thanks.’ He struggled with his satchel. ‘Do you think I can show you something to you. To both of you?’

  Vanity leaned forward, bosoms skating the flyleaves of her books.

  ‘Oh darling, of course you can show me anything you like.’

  ‘Well, okay…’ said Mervyn doubtfully.

  But the young man’s laptop was already out, powered up, and pointing at Mervyn. The screen exploded into life, and he was greeted by an old episode of Vixens from the Void. An actress coated in 80s make-up was chewing her lip and wrestling with an Atari joystick, while sitting in an MFI swivel chair.

  ‘Oh God it’s me, isn’t it?’ said Vanity. ‘I’m really not a fan of how I looked in the show. Do you know, most people say I look better now… What do you think?’ she gave the fan her sauciest smile, but his eyes were completely on Mervyn.

  ‘It’s “Day of the Styrax” from series two,’ mumbled the young man.

  ‘I know,’ said Mervyn, puzzled. ‘I wrote it.’

  ‘I know you know. But look! I’ve remade it.’

  The shot of Vanity wiggling her joystick was suddenly interrupted by a terrifying burst of noise, and CGI spaceships burst across the screen, firing and spitting bolts of pink lightning at each other. Everybody in the room turned, looking at where the noise was coming from.

  Then the screen went back to Vanity/Arkadia, pacing around a cheap corner of a set, tapping the keys of BBC Micro keyboards, before leaping into action again with more frenetic CGI space battles.

  ‘You see, I’ve added my own state-of-the-art special effects. I know you and Nicholas didn’t have a lot of time and money, and it looked a bit ropey at the time. No offence, of course. I know the pressure you were under. So I’ve made it exactly the way you would have wanted it, if you’d done it properly.’ The young man prodded the screen. ‘I spent ages keying in the Styrax warship behind Arkadia’s shoulder using Adobe AfterEffects.’ He mumbled to Vanity: ‘I hope you don’t mind. I had to colour-grade you and overlay you onto a matte.’

  ‘Oh darling, don’t apologise! You have no idea how many times I’ve been overlaid on a mat.’

  The boy stared fondly at the screen and then barked: ‘I’ve got more shots to show you, if you like.’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ said Mervyn. ‘There are other people waiting for autographs. Probably. Don’t want to keep them hanging around.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ The boy nodded vigorously. Mervyn was struck how the young man’s behaviour was like his little computer clip. Quiet and scarcely audible one minute, a burst of noisy energy the next. Mervyn wasn’t certain if it was the young man or his ‘restored footage’ that was giving him his headache.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mervyn. ‘There’s Bernard Viner over there. Why don’t you show him how you’ve improved on what he did? He’s always going on about how rubbish he thought his finished work was, I’m sure he’ll be very excited to see how much better you’ve made it by taking it all out.’

  ‘Great idea. Thanks, Mr Stone.’ He packed his computer away, and made a beeline for Bernard.

  ‘Mervyn, you are still a very naughty man,’ hissed Vanity.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Mervyn simply. ‘I shouldn’t have done it really. He was a nice boy.’

  ‘Oh yes… Very nice.’ A sardonic grin skipped across her face.

  ‘What?’

  She looked at him with a profound pity, her eyebrows cocked and ready. ‘Oh come on, Merv. He was as bent as a paperclip. Anyone could see that.’ The Fan Who Did Not Fancy Vanity was summarily dismissed. ‘And my God, I really thought all that computer stuff of his was hideous, didn’t you Mervyn?’

  ‘I wasn’t impressed, no.’

  ‘All tarted up to look like something it was never meant to be like. Ugh. So vulgar. It’s like some old woman wearing boob-tubes, short skirts and crotchless panties. Catch me ‘improving’ myself like that, Mervy, and you can put me up against a wall and shoot me.’

  ‘I’d rather just put you up against a wall.’

  Vanity’s eyebrows arched into her hairline. ‘Mervy! You are still a very naughty man!’

  Soon the allotted time was up and Vanity’s entourage descended on her once more. Her ciggies and pens were duly collected by the thin-faced girl.

  The girl stared at Mervyn, unblinking. It unnerved him.

  Vanity stood up and tousled Mervyn’s already unkempt hair. ‘Come into my room and we’ll talk about projects you can write for me to star in. Perhaps if I’m in the mood, I’ll even tell you what I’ve written about you in my autobiography.’ As she made to leave, she flicked him a predatory look and lowered her voice to a growl. ‘Perhaps we could even re-enact a few chapters…’

  ‘Now Vanity,’ he whispered. ‘You’re taking advantage of a randy old man. You’re not being fair.’

  ‘Fair? Fair?’ she hooted at full volume. ‘My dear Mervy. “Fair” is my middle name.’ She grinned wolfishly. ‘Literally…’ She squeezed his wrist, and then was
gone in a cloud of Chanel.

  *

  Mervyn was surprised by how flirty he’d been to Vanity. True, they’d used each other shamelessly for sex in the past, but that time was long gone. They’d both stayed out of each other’s underwear for some years now, each preferring to use their convention days to prey on the young, firm and easily impressed.

  Still, the offer was there… And even if he was well acquainted with what lay beneath her bedcovers, getting acquainted with what was beneath the covers of her autobiography sounded just as enticing.

  He was just about to follow her when a large sweaty fan hove into view, blocking his escape. He had thick glasses and rigid black hair sculpted into a drastic parting. He wore a black T-shirt with an impossible looking woman on it—breasts the size of dustbin lids straining against a skimpy leather outfit that would have made it difficult for the poor girl to draw breath let alone fight crime in a dangerous galaxy. It proved, once again, Mervyn’s pet theory on science fiction and fantasy attire. The more attractive and athletic the character depicted on the T-shirt, the less attractive and athletic the fan wearing it.

  Mervyn was irritated; the autograph session was now over. This gormless bastard had just taken advantage of the fact he’d not yet risen from his seat. He looked around helplessly but no help was forthcoming.

  ‘She’s great isn’t she? A wonderful lady.’ Mervyn realised the fan was clutching a signed photograph of Vanity; the one with her nipples prodding through the T-shirt. ‘She’s really real. Genuine. She’s always like that with me. We share something really special, Vanity and me,’ the fan continued.

  He was tempted to say ‘Oh really? What do you share exactly—bra size?’ But he managed to stop himself. Good Mervyn. Nice Mervyn. ‘Oh really?’ he eventually said.

  ‘Oh yes. A real psychic bond.’ He put his photos in a leather file, which he had in a satchel. Then he pulled out a large piece of cardboard from the satchel, which he unfolded and plonked unceremoniously under Mervyn’s nose. The whole process took an inordinately long time, and Mervyn’s patience withered like the plants he tried to keep alive in his house. ‘You have to sign there,’ said the fan, pointing.

  Mervyn inspected it. The piece of cardboard was smothered with photos, video covers and magazine articles. The fan indicated the bottom left corner.