Geek Tragedy

by Nev Fountain

  Mervyn felt a fine spray of coffee on his face as Katherine spluttered.

  ‘What?’

  Big-Nose Bob seemed oblivious to the monumental embarrassment he’d just initiated. ‘Oh, as you said, you can’t keep anything from us fans,’ he said happily, raising his voice over Katherine as she coughed into her napkin. ‘We get to know everything sooner or later.’

  It was an innocent boast that sounded uncomfortably like a threat.

  ‘Well we’re not perfect, are we Robert?’ said Derek, tapping his elbow. ‘After all we didn’t know about Simon’s death, did we?’

  ‘Ah. But we’re the first with the anecdote. And that counts for a lot.’

  ‘Too blummin’ right,’ said Derek, and then he lurched upright in his chair as if a woman had placed a hand on his knee. ‘Oh my God! The Loughborough posse went for a pizza last night, so they won’t have heard. I’ve got to go and tell them.’ He wiped his chin on a napkin, got out of his chair and headed over to spread the anecdote.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mervyn entered the foyer, which was already buzzing with people. Morris was by the reception desk addressing the stewards. Minnie was among them, her eyes darting in his direction while trying to listen to what Morris was saying. Morris was explaining how he’d laminated some of the schedules on cardboard, attached a string and persuaded the hotel to let them hang them over light fittings and picture hooks.

  Mervyn saw Smurf sitting on a sofa and plonked down beside him. ‘Everyone’s being so flippant. Isn’t anyone shocked by it? I mean, Simon thrived at these conventions. He lived for them. How could he…just…you know?’

  Smurf shrugged. ‘Don’t tear your hair out for the likes of him. Simon wouldn’t have been the slightest bit bothered if it were the other way round and it was you who’d topped yourself. He’d probably act like nothing’d happened; prop you up to try to get you to sign a few autographs before you started to smell.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that, but even so.’

  ‘Anyway, who cares? You didn’t like him, did you? No one did.’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t like him. He was an irritating two-faced snide little creep. I don’t know why I’m so…’ He frowned. ‘No, I know. I do know. Perhaps it’s because I feel a bit responsible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well. If I hadn’t taken my pills perhaps I would have woken up quicker and got to the Styrax before he suffocated. I’m always such a light sleeper.’

  Smurf laughed. ‘Merv! Once a script editor, always a script editor. Always going through the story with a fine-toothed comb. No one, no matter how mental, is going to blame you for Simon’s death.’

  Morris sidled up to them and handed Mervyn a card. ‘Someone left this for you. Wants you to be available to answer some questions.’

  Mervyn’s hand went numb as he read: SC STUART COULSON METROPOLITAN POLICE and the address of the local police station.

  Oh God, they know I took evidence away from the scene. Who told them?

  Mervyn made his excuses and left.

  CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT TWO / 10.00am

  EVENT: ‘DAY OF THE STYAX’ REMEMBERED—VANITY MYCROFT, RODERICK BURGESS Katherine Warner LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)

  EVENT: ‘EXPIRATION POINT’ EPISODE SCREENING

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

  EVENT: AUTOGRAPH PANEL—JOSEPH McANDREW, TIM WARNE, BRYCE CAMPION, RICK AMORY

  LOCATION: Arkadia’s Boudoir (room 1013)

  EVENT: PHOTOS—NICHOLAS EVERETT

  LOCATION: Transpodule Chamber (room 1030)

  EVENT: NEW VOIDS—AUDIOS EXPERT PANEL with Graham Goldingay, Fay Lawless, Craig Jones, Darren Cardew

  LOCATION: The Seventh Moon of Groolia (room 1002)

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A few minutes later, Mervyn was in a police station surrounded by sludge-grey walls. As with most cop shops, the reception area was covered with unhelpful posters shouting at the public—who’d come into the station after being mugged, burgled or swindled—to ‘Watch out! There are muggers, burglars and con artists about!’

  He was shown into a glass-fronted office. After about five minutes, a young man with straight blond hair and round John Lennon spectacles entered. He sat on the other side of the desk and bent low over his notes. ‘Thanks for coming Mr Stone. I really, really appreciate it.’

  Mervyn was in a state of panic. The thing he’d taken from the Styrax was still in his jacket pocket, screaming to be discovered. He stared and tried to answer; his jaw moved, but his lips failed to reciprocate.

  ‘Egh.’

  The man opened a slim black folder and inspected the contents closely. ‘Before we start, may I just ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Agh,’ Mervyn went. He nodded madly to emphasise that ‘agh’ was his current word for ‘Yes’.

  Wait a minute. He’s not taping us. Surely he should be taping us. And why aren’t we in an interview room? Oh right, I get the picture. I know the score. I wrote for The Bill, mister. It’ll just be a few friendly questions and then he’ll introduce me to his superior officers, Superintendent Rubber Hose, Chief Inspector Sock Of Sand and Detective Chief Inspector Open Stairwell.

  ‘Right. Okay now…’ said the man.

  ‘You’re not taping us.’ Mervyn blurted. ‘Shouldn’t you be taping us? I think that’s what you’re supposed to do. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ The man looked a bit taken aback, but nevertheless pulled out a tiny dictaphone. ‘Right. Okay. Now…’

  ‘Sorry, that’s not good enough. I want a proper recording machine. A big one. And I want to be in a proper interview room. With a table. And an ashtray.’ Mervyn didn’t smoke, but he felt like asserting himself with some demands, and that was all he could think of at the moment. The policeman’s eyes narrowed. He looked almost surprised.

  Ha. I’ve got him, thought Mervyn gleefully. I know my rights. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. I once successfully contested a parking ticket AND I got a refund on my poll tax.

  ‘Okay…’ The man stood up and dutifully showed him down the stairs, along a corridor and into a tiny room with a bare table dimpled with cigarette burns. They started again.

  The man closed the door, sat opposite Mervyn, and reopened his file. ‘Right… Where was I…’

  ‘You need to turn on the tape recorder.’

  The man turned on the tape recorder.

  ‘O-kay,’ said the man. ‘Now. Questions… Ah, here we are.’

  Here we go, thought Mervyn. I just saw it there and took it. It was just an impulse. I didn’t think it was important, honest.

  ‘So, Mr Stone. Where do you get your ideas from?’

  ‘Agh?’

  The man took ‘agh’ as a sign that Mervyn was offended by the question. He scrabbled in his notes. ‘Okay. Sorry. No, forget that. Sorry. That’s a dorky one. Oh yeah. Ah! You know the episode “The Burning Time” by Marcus Spicer? From season four? Is it true you wrote all of it except the title? Because that would make a lot of sense—’

  ‘Erm…?’

  ‘Oh—waitwaitwait no—here’s one. Now this is a good one. You know in “Beware the Ides of Mars” in season two? When Arkadia and Vizor take the Styrax shuttle from Chevron and it took two days to get back to Vixos? How come next season in “The Enigma Factor” it took the Vixen Flagship Hyperion two whole weeks to get from Vixos to Chevron—on full imperative drive? I mean, was that some kind of clue to a special stardrive the Nemetides were keeping secret? Because that would explain why they never appeared when we saw the Styrax prison planet in the episode “Prison Planet”, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cos if they had a stardrive, they could have evacuated and left the galaxy when the Styrax invaded the empire, couldn’t they?’

  ‘What?’

  The policeman looked up from his folder, and Mervyn realised that the face grinning at him was one he’d seen no
t so long ago. The hair had been spiky, and there had been no spectacles, but it was definitely him.

  It was the fan who’d asked for his autograph yesterday morning.

  *

  They continued the interrogation in the police canteen. Not as brutal as Mervyn expected, but all in all, it was one of the tougher fanzine interviews he’d endured.

  Stuart Coulson plonked two coffees, a KitKat and a broad grin in front of Mervyn. ‘I know you’re very particular about your coffee. Best I can do, I’m afraid. Thanks for answering all my questions. It’s going to be a great article. I’ll send you a copy of The Vix as soon as it’s finished.’

  ‘So…Stuart. You’re a policeman.’

  ‘Yes. For my sins. Sort of.’

  Mervyn looked at the card he’s been given. ‘SC Stuart Coulson. You’re a superintendent chief?’

  ‘Special constable, actually. I got the cards printed myself.’

  ‘And you’re at the convention.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you undercover or something?’

  ‘Nope, it’s just a hobby of mine. Just having fun.’

  ‘“Just a hobby”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the fishnets and basques and capes and thigh boots?’

  ‘That’s just cosplay.’

  ‘Cosplay?’

  ‘Costume play.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I was just having fun.’

  ‘Because you do hear things. About policemen… You know… Masonic stuff.’

  ‘Nope. As I said, just having fun.’

  ‘Sure you’re not undercover? I won’t tell anyone.’

  Stuart shrugged amiably, as a way of avoiding saying ‘I was just having fun’ again.

  Mervyn took another daring sip of his coffee. ‘So. You didn’t bring me here to arrest me then.’

  ‘Oh no. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  Mervyn stared hard at Stuart. Stuart finally realised what the stare meant. His eyes spun and his mouth dropped open, like a fruit machine paying out.

  ‘Oh. Right. The message I left. It should have been a bit clearer?’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Mervyn’s sarcasm was so thick it could have been used to resurface motorways. ‘But you didn’t bring me here for an interview for your fanzine, did you? You could have done that at the hotel.’

  ‘No. I mean yes. I mean no, I didn’t bring you here for that. You see… I believe that Simon Josh was murdered…and I want you to help me find the killer.’

  ‘I see.’

  God cranked up the ambient noise. All of a sudden the clink of cutlery and whoosh of cappuccino machines grew to deafening levels.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Mervyn asked.

  Stuart moved his cup with the palms of his hands. ‘Firstly, before I tell you why I think that… I want to say something. When I got into Vixens restoration, sprucing up the effects, I kind of got obsessed about making little things right, you know? First it was a dodgy laser blast, then a dodgy spaceship, then I moved on to dodgy neighbourhoods, and dodgy people.’ He grinned. ‘Yep. It was down to you that I wanted to become a policeman.’

  Mervyn looked doubtfully at the special constable. He suspected that Stuart’s colleagues wouldn’t thank Mervyn for inspiring the young man to go into the force.

  ‘And let’s not forget,’ Stuart continued. ‘You’re a detective too! It was you who worked out that Bernard Viner was stealing all the props from the studio…’

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me. If I hadn’t done that, Bernard wouldn’t have held a 20-year grudge against me.’

  ‘But don’t you see? You have a classic detective brain! You could be so useful to me.’

  Mervyn considered this. ‘So tell me… Why do you think Simon was murdered?’

  ‘It was his face. It was purple.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘He was sitting in the Styrax, he had a hose from the exhaust and he died from carbon monoxide poisoning.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘He died of carbon monoxide poisoning and his face was purple.’

  ‘Yes? And?’

  ‘Carbon monoxide poisoning causes the face to look flushed red. Simon’s face should have looked ruddy or blotchy, because of the exhaust fumes, but it wasn’t. It was bright purple—and do you know why it was purple?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was purple because he was wearing purple make-up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Exactly! Just cheap purple face-paint. I mean, the type of stuff kids use on Hallowe’en. When they want to dress up as scary creatures and terrify you on the doorstep.’

  ‘Yes. I never quite understood that. I always thought that if small children wanted to dress up as something that really terrified me, ideally they should dress up as small children.’

  ‘And Simon had a purple bathing cap in his pocket. Which I think we can guess means he was going to the convention’s fancy dress disco. I mean, hardly the action of a man about to commit suicide, is it?’

  ‘Must he have been going?’ Mervyn didn’t see the connection.

  ‘Come on, it’s obvious! He must have been planning to go to the fancy dress as a Groolian ambassador.’

  ‘Of course he was. Obviously.’ Mervyn was starting to find Stuart’s geekish alter ego rather amusing—or at least, he was enjoying watching the part-time policeman and the full-time fan fighting for control of Stuart’s brain.

  ‘I mean… That’s all you need to get yourself up as a Groolian ambassador. Purple make-up and a bathing cap.’

  ‘And that’s why you think he was murdered.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s another question. Why are you asking me to help you? Calling in an amateur detective is a bit 19th century, isn’t it? Why aren’t you and your flat-footed mates ransacking the hotel and taking statements?’

  Stuart fiddled with his cup, watching the coffee swirl. He was studiously avoiding Mervyn’s eye. ‘I…haven’t told my superiors about my suspicions. They think he painted his face in some bizarre ritual that sci-fi fans go in for.’

  ‘I see. Sitting in his Styrax with his face painted purple. Like a Viking in his longboat, or a Pharaoh being buried with his death mask on.’

  ‘Exactly. Well the thing is… I’m only a special constable, and if I told them about my fancy dress theory I don’t think they’d take me entirely seriously.’

  Understanding dawned. ‘Oh I see. You don’t want to walk into your boss’s office and say “Excuse me, I happened to be at the scene of the crime dressed in a lycra leotard and thigh boots, and I believe my extensive knowledge of an obscure science fiction show from the 80s might shed some light on a possible murder.”’

  ‘Exactly. They’re still ribbing DS Perryman for coming out of the ladies with her skirt tucked in her knickers, and that was five years ago. If they ever found out about me being at a science fiction convention and dressing up as female star warrior I might as well emigrate.’ Stuart looked up at him, his eyes wide, cute and imploring, like the God Of All Puppies.

  ‘I was hoping we could solve it. Just the two of us. If you help me solve it, it would be…amazing, wouldn’t it? What do you think?’

  ‘Well, let me think,’ said Mervyn.

  He thought.

  ‘I think,’ he said at last. ‘That if you don’t put me in a car and take me back to the hotel in the next five minutes, I’m going to call a lawyer and sue the police for intimidation.’

  It was Stuart’s turn to go ‘Agh’. He’d got whiplash of the brain. This was not the response he was expecting.

  ‘Now, if you could arrange for a car to take me back to the hotel? I have an autograph session at 11 o’clock and I don’t want to be late,’ said Mervyn.

  *

  They went down in the lift, sharing a deep, uncomfortable silence. Or they would have if the lift hadn’t had radio pumped through its speakers. Classic FM was playing the William Tell
overture. Rather daringly, it was the gentle bit before the loud bit before the famous bit.

  ‘I just thought you might be interested. I just thought I’d ask you if you wanted to help,’ whimpered Stuart at last. ‘I didn’t think…’

  ‘No, you didn’t “think”. I wasted my time coming to a police station, worrying what I’d done wrong because you “didn’t think”. Your sort never do “think”. You fans always think we’re up for anything, don’t you? You take the fact that you can meet us at conventions, have a chat, share the odd drink and a joke as a sign that you own us, permission to drag us into any piece of nonsense you can dream up. The amount of mad schemes I’ve been roped into… Silly cabarets, weird charity records, embarrassing publicity stunts. There was one so-called “convention” I got invited to. It turned out it was a fan’s tenth birthday party. I was asked questions about my career by six kids eating trifle while his mum served me cups of orange juice. I was on after the magician.’

  ‘Oh. I can see that might have been a bit…well.’

  Mervyn was starting to get quite heated. ‘It happens time and time again. Did you know I was out of work for a year and a half after Vixens finished? A year and a half! Everyone assumes that a writer who devises and script-edits a TV series is too grand to be a jobbing writer any more—so the phone just stops ringing. Then—hallelujah—my agent gets a request for me to work on a “major film project”. I travel 90 miles out of London with dollar signs floating in front of my eyes only to find myself in a car park in Peterborough with two ten-year-olds, a camcorder and a Styrax made out of eggboxes.’

  ‘But… We did pay you!’

  Mervyn stared incredulously at Stuart. ‘What?’

  Classic FM got to the loud bit before the famous bit.

  ‘It was a really good fan video! We made several improvements on the original monster designs! Our Gorgs were brilliant!’

  ‘Oh it was you, was it? Terrific! I might have known!’ The lift opened, and Mervyn exploded out of it, throwing his arms wide in despair.

  ‘But… This is murder!’

  ‘But don’t you see? That makes it worse! You’re talking about murder and you’re still treating it as an opportunity to play games!’