Geek Tragedy

by Nev Fountain

  Another familiar burst of laughter and applause. Nicholas had done nothing of the sort, of course. It was a spontaneous ad-lib from a panel some years ago which went down very well, so it had stayed in. It helped to ‘oil the wheels’ in the telling of a tale that had already been told too many times before, and wasn’t really true in the first place.

  Mervyn continued the anecdote. ‘When I finished that evening—still scratching my head over the lack of a monster—I found I couldn’t leave. My car had been boxed in by a rather stylish Austin 11. I was stuck there for two hours—security was ringing round like mad trying to find the owner, and while I was sitting there on the wall with darkness falling like snow around me—not to mention the snow falling like snow around me—I realised that I was in thrall to this damn machine. Of course, this was the mid 80s, and the fact the country had been held to ransom by weekly fuel crises was still in living memory… I was, in effect, a slave to my car at that moment, so what would it be like if they really took over? So the idea came there and then.’

  Nicholas was smirking now.

  ‘So I rushed up to the production office to tell Nicholas, only to find he’d disappeared… He’d been called out by security to move his new car…’

  ‘…My newly bought Austin 11…’ supplied Nicholas.

  ‘…Which was thoughtlessly blocking in the script editor of Vixens from The Void,’ completed Mervyn.

  There was a warm round of applause, as if they had just completed a particularly good card trick.

  Simon Josh intervened. ‘Now, Mervyn, you left the show at that point. To quote a certain programme starring Patrick McGoohan: “Why did you resign?”’

  ‘Well, you know what old Samuel Johns used to say… “It’s when your memories are at their happiest, that it’s time to say goodbye…”’

  An appreciative murmur of recognition spread around the room as the fans recognised a notoriously meaningless quote from an old actor from series one of Vixens, who was too bored and drunk to do series two.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No.’

  Laughter.

  ‘It was creative differences,’ said Mervyn solemnly. ‘I could no longer work under this ogre beside me.’

  Nicholas put on a ferocious ‘Grrr!’ face to the audience, which elicited a shriek of delight.

  ‘But then you suddenly came back a month later. Why was that?’

  ‘I’d changed my aftershave,’ quipped Nicholas.

  Bernard had been lounging sullenly in the end chair since the panel started. Suddenly, however, he spoke in a bored voice. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with fact that, if you had invented the Styrax while you were script editor, they would technically be BBC property and you wouldn’t keep the rights?’

  Mervyn was annoyed. Bernard was technically half-right, but the part he chose to get wrong made Mervyn look like a money-grubbing bastard.

  ‘Well Bernard hasn’t got it quite right…’ He stole a glance to his left, where Bernard had returned to his sullen state, idly staring at the Happy Traveller’s light fittings.

  ‘We’d had a bit of a crisis with our scripts. As usual. A couple of new chaps we were trying out for the series hadn’t come up with the goods… Andrew Jamieson had let us down…’ He saved a frisson of comic world-weariness for his last word: ‘…Again.’

  On hearing his name being taken in vain, fellow Vixens writer Andrew Jamieson waved cheerfully from the back of the hall where he was leaning on a loudspeaker (on which also perched a large glass of wine). No one on the stage could see him in the darkness, but there was a delightedly ragged cheer from fans at the back, who suddenly realised a celebrity was in their midst.

  ‘As a lot of you here know well, the BBC used to frown on script editors commissioning themselves. They saw it as a sort of self-nepotism. I’d already asked permission to write a substantial amount of the previous series when things started to get a bit fraught…’

  Bernard tittered to himself, and Mervyn could have sworn he heard him say ‘Well, naturally’ under his breath.

  ‘…So in case they said “no” this time, I removed myself from the in-house job, and that way I was able to write the story.’

  Bernard swivelled his eyes towards Mervyn, ‘…And that way, as an ordinary freelance writer, you were able to keep sole rights and cash in on the merchandise. Funny that…’

  Mervyn had had enough. ‘All this interest in why I resigned! It’s all very flattering, but this conversation does seem to be getting very “me, me, me”. Let’s talk about why someone else resigned. How about you, Bernard? Why did you resign?’ Mervyn slapped his forehead in mock realisation. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot. You didn’t resign, did you? You got sacked. That’s right. You got fired. For nicking props off the set. Oh yes. How could I have forgotten?’

  Bernard’s eyes became slits.

  He stood up, and started to leave the stage in a huff. Then turned round abruptly and lunged, punching Mervyn full on the jaw.

  ‘You smarmy little shit!’ he yelled.

  The room erupted. Two stewards in mauve sweatshirts raced to the stage, helping a dazed Mervyn to his feet. A third steward attempted to restrain Bernard, only for Bernard to swerve around him and knock Mervyn off his feet again.

  Nicholas lunged out of his own chair and, in a surprising move that was distinctly at odds with his camp persona, grabbed Bernard’s legs in a neat little rugby tackle, which sent Bernard staggering backwards into Mervyn, who was struggling to get up for the third time.

  Mervyn staggered…

  Fell off the edge of the stage…

  And…

  Right on top of the Styrax prop.

  The fibreglass and papier-mâché disintegrated, and Mervyn was enveloped in a huge mushroom cloud of paper, glue and paint flecks.

  The fans were stunned into silence. The young man who showed Mervyn the ‘restored footage’ on his laptop was the nearest. He was frozen in shock, looking at the remains of the Styrax and the body lying in the middle of it. His hands were clapped to his mouth at the horror before him. There was no restoring this old effect, no matter how many hours spent on Adobe AfterEffects.

  *

  A St John’s Ambulance man rushed into the hall, carrying a first aid box. ‘Where is he?’ he panted.

  ‘Down here,’ a man pointed. ‘He went down quite hard. I think his nose is broken.’

  The crowd parted to give access.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the St John’s Ambulance man asked. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Simon Josh’s eyes fluttered open. ‘I think so,’ he said drowsily, trying to sit up from where he’d suddenly collapsed, eight seconds after Mervyn fell off the stage. ‘I’m sorry, I think I must have fainted. I…’ he levered himself up on an elbow, ‘…I thought for a moment that someone had crushed my Styrax Sentinel.’

  At precisely the wrong time, a steward came up to Simon with an armful of papier-mâché. ‘What should I do with this?’

  Simon took one look at the sad, crushed fragments in the steward’s hands, and fainted again, his head hitting the stage with a satisfying ‘thunk’.

  CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT ONE / 2.00pm

  EVENT: MY LIFE AS A GROOLIAN—JOSEPH McANDREW, TIM WARNE, BRYCE CAMPION, RICK AMORY

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

  EVENT: ‘THE DOOMSDAY SEQUENCE’ EPISODE SCREENING

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

  EVENT: PHOTOS—WILLIAM SMURFETT

  LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)

  EVENT: AUTOGRAPH PANEL—RODERICK BURGESS, Katherine Warner

  LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)

  EVENT: VIXENS FROM THE VOID: WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS FAN PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew

  LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mervyn headed into the lift, nursing his swollen jaw and picking ch
unks of Styrax out of his hair. Nicholas rode up with him. The doors pinged open.

  Of all the bloody luck. Bernard was in the room next to his.

  ‘You talentless hack!’ he screeched. ‘I’m going to see you in court and sue your arse off!’

  ‘Oh really,’ said Mervyn drily. ‘I’m not an expert, but as I understand English law, slander only works when you say stuff which isn’t true.’

  Bernard looked like he was going to say something else, but decided against it. He gave another furious look and slammed his door.

  Nicholas turned to Mervyn. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Well I’m not. I’m shaking like a leaf. I don’t know about you, my sweet, but I’m gasping for a ciggie. I could eat a packet and spit out the filters.’

  ‘I don’t smoke any more’.

  ‘You could watch me. You’ll get a moral buzz, if nothing else.’

  ‘I’ll meet you outside in 15 minutes.’

  *

  Mervyn examined the damage in his mirror. There was an angry red mark tattooed across his chin. Fortunately his hair hadn’t been affected—it always looked as if he’d collided with something large and dusty.

  There were white marks streaked across his jacket. He attacked them ineffectually with his hairbrush. Fortunately, he had an identical jacket waiting in the wardrobe. If your choice of outfit was any colour so long as it’s black, it was as well to have a spare to hand.

  *

  Order had been restored to the room with spectacular efficiency. Morris had taken advantage of Simon Josh’s comatose state to improve things. Four actors who had played Groolian ambassadors had been rushed on early and were desperately trying to find something new and interesting to say about a job they’d done for six weeks, 20 years ago (there were only so many times you could point out how itchy the bald caps were and how the purple body paint never washed off, no matter how many baths you had).

  As Mervyn walked towards the foyer, he found himself in a narrow corridor, having to inch his way past a long queue waiting for something or other. They all stared fish-eyed at him. Dust and fragments of Styrax flaked off Mervyn’s hair. The attendees grabbed at the bits as they floated down as if Mervyn was covered in gold.

  Some of then started to nudge Mervyn, unbalance him, trying to make more bits fall off. He started to feel like he was Jesus, surrounded by a crowd of particularly assertive and demanding lepers.

  There was an open door at the head of the queue. He dived inside. Morris was in there, taking photos of Vixens fans as they posed alongside another Styrax prop—similar to the one Mervyn had scattered to the four corners of the hotel with his descending backside.

  ‘Don’t lean on the Styrax, please,’ said Morris casually, staring through his camera at a fan who had unwisely rested his elbow on the prop. ‘It’s only papier-mâché and fibreglass on a wooden base. They’re old and rather fragile. They get damaged easily.’ He caught sight of Mervyn. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He indicated the Styrax. ‘Watch yourself around that. There’s not many left now.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll try to resist smashing it to pieces.’

  The photo was taken, money changed hands and the fan left the room. Morris took the opportunity to shut the door on the queue, prompting muffled and indignant cries.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Morris asked, in a sepulchral tone.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a little shaken.’

  ‘It was quite a punch he threw.’

  ‘Yes. Yes it was.’

  ‘I hope you don’t blame us for this.’

  ‘No no… It’s just a personal matter between me and Bernard.’

  ‘That’s great’. Morris patted the case of his video camera. ‘Because it’s going to look great on the website and the souvenir DVD.’ Morris looked him up and down, as if sizing him up for a coffin. ‘Are you’re sure you’re all right? You know, you really should get your head looked at…’

  I’ve been thinking that ever since I got here, Mervyn thought.

  ‘A knock on the head, well, it can be more serious, you know.’ Morris waggled a fleshy finger against his head to reinforce his point. ‘I’m going to the bar. Do you want anything?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Mervyn was left alone with the Styrax Sentinel. He sauntered up to it. ‘I don’t know what they’ve been telling you. But I didn’t really mean to crush your colleague. So don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said jokily.

  ‘I’d like to see you try, chummo,’ said the Styrax.

  Mervyn staggered, took several backward steps, and fell over on his bruised behind.

  ‘Can we take a break? I’m dyin’ in here, man,’ it said.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Hey, who’s that?’

  ‘Smurf?’

  ‘Merv?’

  Mervyn edged towards the Styrax. ‘Smurf? Is that you?’

  ‘Get me out of this bastard thing, will you?’

  Mervyn unbolted the back of the Styrax and two sets of stubby fingers grabbed the rim of the shell. A sweaty dwarf eased himself out, grabbed a towel from a chair, rubbed his face vigorously, and left it flapping on his head like a boxer.

  ‘I’d give it ten minutes if I were you,’ the dwarf said, jerking a finger at the open lid of the Styrax. A ripe smell, Essence of Dwarf Sweat, was starting to fill the room. ‘Those things don’t half stink. Going in there…it’s like getting stuffed inside your own armpit.’ He looked around, scowling. ‘Don’t tell me the bastard’s gone for another tea break and left me. I’ll bite his bloody kneecaps off.’

  ‘He went to the bar.’

  ‘Huh. Didn’t ask if I wanted anything. As usual. When you’re in there you might as well be on another planet for all the notice gets taken of you.’

  ‘Smurf…what were you doing in there?’

  ‘I’m getting my photo taken.’

  ‘In there?’

  ‘The fans like it like that. We sell loads.’

  Mervyn looked at the pile of photos on the table, all featuring grinning fans standing by the Styrax. ‘Wouldn’t they prefer it, if you know, they could see you?’

  ‘How would I do that, then?’

  ‘You could stand outside of it…’

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s my costume. Why would they want me out of costume?’

  Something had definitely got shaken loose in his head when he hit the floor. He tried to digest the logic of it, but his brain spat it out.

  ‘But…if you’re in there, in the Styrax. Well, they can’t, you know, see you in the photos. What’s the point?’

  ‘What do you mean, “What’s the point”?’ You think a photo taken with one of the stars of the show in his costume is pointless?’ Smurf was getting indignant.

  ‘No. Yes. I mean no. Of course it’s not. I mean, look. How can they even prove to anyone looking at the photo that you were actually inside it?’

  ‘Oh, they can.’

  ‘They can?’

  ‘Oh yes. They get their photos stamped.’ Smurf picked a rubber stamp up off a trestle table, slammed it down on one of the spare photos, and handed the shot to Mervyn. It read: This photograph depicts me with a Styrax Sentinel from Vixens from the Void. The Styrax is being manned by original operator William ‘Smurf’ Smurfett. ‘It’s a nice little convention sideline, this is.’ Smurf started dusting himself down with a clothes brush.

  ‘I suppose you heard about what happened on stage this morning?’

  Smurf gave a throaty chuckle that sounded as though it belonged in a much larger person. ‘Oh yes, I heard about it. I would have given real money to see Simon’s face. Andrew Jamieson said it was the best panel he’s ever seen at a con.’

  ‘Did he really.’

  ‘I think there’ll be quite a few people queuing up to buy you a drink at the bar tonight. The little snit makes me want to vomit, always preening and showing off his stuff. Couldn’t have happen
ed to a nicer guy.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s got one left,’ said Mervyn, indicating the Styrax Smurf had just climbed out of.

  ‘Oh, no he hasn’t. This one’s mine. And if he comes sniffing around it he’s going to be sorry. I don’t care how much he offers—he can whistle for it.’

  He patted it proudly. ‘Picked it up in a car boot sale in ‘98. Even if it’s seen better days and it’s a bit flaky round the edges, I still don’t mind climbing inside it for a few hours.’

  Mervyn smiled. ‘A lot of people would say that about Vanity Mycroft…’

  Smurf’s face froze. ‘What?’

  ‘Joke. Seen better days? Flaky around the edges? Sorry, bit naughty that—’

  ‘I don’t appreciate cracks like that—from you of all people!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I had nothing do with her. All right? Nothing! And I’ll thank you to keep your witty bloody comments to yourself!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand…’

  ‘Just don’t mention that woman’s name all right? Just don’t mention it! She’s a lying cow and don’t let her convince you any different!’

  Mervyn looked at him, dumbstruck.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Sorry Mervyn. I thought you’d heard about it. Everyone else has.’

  Smurf and Mervyn emerged from the hotel into the car park, where the smokers skulked. It was much brighter than the gloom of the hotel and they blinked like startled librarians. Nicholas was already there, dragging greedily on his cigarette.

  ‘So what does she say about you?’ Mervyn asked.

  ‘I’d rather not repeat the old witch’s libel, if you don’t mind. I’m putting everything in the hands of my lawyers.’

  Nicholas’s mouth twitched. ‘I expect you can go through the small claims court.’

  ‘It ain’t funny, Nicholas!’ Smurf fumed. ‘I’m not having her chuck lies about me left, right and centre. I’m going to take this all the way, you know. I’ll take a DNA test if I have to.’

  ‘Quite right, quite right,’ said Nicholas, looking concerned. He hastily changed the subject. ‘Anyway. How are you feeling, Mervy? Recovered from your battle with the Styrax?’