Cursed Among Sequels (The Mervyn Stone Mysteries, #3)

by Nev Fountain

  The pub fell completely silent.

  ‘Well look at that,’ said Mervyn drily, looking around. ‘Well done. It seems like you finally squeezed some drama out of a scene.’

  Ken jabbed his finger at Mervyn’s face like a rapier. He stopped it millimetres from Mervyn’s nose.

  ‘You never knew how lucky you were. But you will. One day. And that day will come soon.’

  Then Ken left.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The read-through commenced in the afternoon. It was the first meeting of all the cast, and there was a lot of excitement, not least among the runners and other young members of the production team who were profoundly impressed that the Stepford Wagz were honouring them with their presence.

  Ken had resumed his place at the table, flipping impatiently through his script and making notes. He didn’t look up when Mervyn entered.

  It was a full 20 minutes before the Wagz arrived.

  As any star knows, it is important to generate a memorable performance wherever they go—but it’s left up to them as to whether that performance is a positive or a negative one. Thankfully, the Wagz were young and still excited about the business, so they were definitely into being positive. They came in like a beautifully choreographed firework display, making delighted squeals, subsiding, and then exploding in other parts of the room, throwing their arms around people they’d worked with or just each other. There was a lot of noise and colour before everything died down and they finally settled into their places round the table.

  Then the read-through finally started, slowly and stiltedly. It didn’t sound good. More importantly, it didn’t sound like Vixens from the Void. Mervyn tried to pinpoint why. Perhaps it was the Vixens? He was used to hearing clipped BBC English barking across the table, not Brummie vowels sliding around the room.

  No, that wasn’t it. There were different accents in the old series. Suzy Lu’s voice had been so incomprehensible they toyed with the idea of making her from a different planet and giving her subtitles. And as for Jenny McLaird’s Scottish brogue…

  But that wasn’t it either. It was the script. It was the first 15 pages of the script. It puzzled him when he flicked though it in his room, and his confusion was reinforced when he heard it read out loud. There were scenes where the Vixens were arguing with men who’d treated them badly. Lots of scenes. Lots of shouting matches. Lots of plotlines about boyfriends betraying the Vixens in a variety of ways. Mervyn didn’t like to make a fuss; but he was being paid to be a ‘Programme Consultant’, and he was determined to do something for his money somehow.

  When there was a natural break at the end of a scene, Mervyn spoke. ‘I’m a bit confused by all these scenes with all these boyfriends.’ His voice sounded strange in the room, and he realised that he’d stayed silent for so long, he’d forgotten what he sounded like. ‘They’re all very dramatic and well written and all, but what have they got to do with Vixens from the Void? The arguments seem a bit pointless to me.’

  Louise leaned forward, addressing Mervyn’s shoulder. ‘Well this is—we hope—just the first episode of many. And we fully expect a full series. So we think it’s important in dramatic terms to explain to the audience what motivates the girls. I mean, just why do they hate men? That’s what the viewers will want to know.’

  ‘But they don’t hate men. The Vixens just treat men like second-class citizens because that’s their culture. That’s been their religion for hundreds of years.’

  Louise found a ring on the third finger of her left hand extremely fascinating. ‘Oh yes, but we found that a bit dodgy. The whole “scripture tells us to treat the other gender as second class” stuff sounds like we’re taking a pop at the Muslims, and that’s a real no-no.’

  ‘The whole religious angle is out, Merv,’ added Randall apologetically. ‘Too risky for our blood. Product Lazarus don’t want networks dropping the show, or demonstrations outside Walmart just before Christmas hots up.’

  Louise continued. ‘It’s far more satisfying in dramatic terms for their characters if they are all mistreated by bastard men, and come together to take their revenge on all of mankind. Like in that film.’

  ‘I see.’ Mervyn felt that the first third of the pilot was degenerating into EastEnders in space, but he didn’t press the point. It wasn’t his project. And anyway, who was he to judge? His pitch for the original series floated back to him across the years. ‘Just imagine Dynasty meets Dallas… In space!’

  *

  They had a ten-minute fag break, and Nick, Louise and Randall rushed up to the roof of the building to brave the cold and pollute the clear, Cornish air with smoke. Other members of the production team chose this moment to dash in and out of a trendy Cornish coffee shop outside, which had enterprisingly sprung up within days of the announcement that a major television show was going to be filmed in the area. The Oo-ar Bar was already doing great business, with its interesting mix of traditional Cornish fare and metropolitan cool. The clotted creamoccinos were proving very popular, as were the pastinis, a strange hybrid of pasty and panini.

  Mervyn had already drunk stupid amounts of coffee courtesy of the filter machine in the corner, so he didn’t feel like dashing with them; he went to search for the loo. He went along the corridor, and pressed for a lift.

  And there was Glyn Trelawney, waiting beside him.

  Mervyn felt uncomfortable, and it wasn’t just his complaining bladder. He pulled some conversation out of his throat. ‘Just looking for the toilet.’

  Glyn chuckled. ‘Ah, the call of the widdle! Comes to us all! Just up two floors.’

  ‘Oh. Maybe I should take the stairs. Get some exercise.’

  The lift doors opened.

  ‘It’s here now.’

  They got inside. The doors closed.

  ‘Up, up and away!’ chortled Glyn.

  Mervyn felt obliged to say something. ‘I’m sorry I stuck my oar in there. It just seemed odd to me.’

  Glyn beamed voraciously. He couldn’t have looked more delighted if Mervyn had offered to marry his daughter. ‘Haha! Not a bit of it, my lovely. I’m delighted with your input. And that’s what script meetings are for, Mervyn. To find out what’s wrong with the script and change it.’ Glyn had seemingly forgotten his view about ‘the finished script being right under his noggin’.

  ‘Okay. Fair enough.’

  ‘No, don’t give it another thought. I’m perfectly all right with it.’ The lift doors pinged open, and he tootled off down the corridor, whistling cheerfully.

  The lift doors closed. The lift moved, stopped, and the doors pinged open again.

  And Glyn was standing there. He’d walked up one floor and waited for the lift.

  He got back in.

  It was curious. Glyn was standing differently; legs apart, his head down, his eyes hooded and malevolent. He looked like a completely different person. They stood there in awkward silence as the lift continued.

  ‘You dinnae want tae cross me, old man,’ Glyn growled at last. His voice was now immersed in a thick Glaswegian accent, all trace of jolly Cornish gone. ‘They all tried to tell me how tae write ma scripts, an’ they’ve all been verra sorry they did, every one o’them. Okay boy?’

  Glyn’s new voice was familiar, and Mervyn recognised it with a shock. It was the voice of another television writer, James Robert Ogilvy. Jamie was big a few years ago, seemingly managing to write half of Channel 4’s drama output single-handed. He was incredibly talented, but had a huge temper. He’d actually gone to prison for taking his car and running over (and seriously injuring) a producer who’d incurred his wrath by rewriting one of his scenes without his knowledge.

  The lift pinged open again.

  Glyn straightened up and beamed, looking his cheery self once more.

  ‘See you downstairs, my lovely.’ The Cornish accent was back, too. He left the lift without a backward glance, whistling cheerfully.

  Mervyn was stunned. He’d just been threatened, like he was a minor me
mber of the mob who’d stepped out of line. He’d just been threatened by some bighead writer who was so insecure he needed to adopt other people’s personalities to work, interact and bully to get his own way.

  He was slightly scared, but he was angry too. He wasn’t taking that. He wasn’t some court flunky, looking for patronage. It’s fine to threaten some 25 year old who’s desperate for his first job in television, but you’re messing with a man with nothing to lose.

  If it’s a war you want, Glyn Trelawney, or whoever you are, you’ve got one.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mervyn tried out his new rebellious streak. He deliberately took 15 minutes to get back after the ten-minute fag break. He was slightly disappointed and slightly relieved to find that everyone was still talking and no one noticed. They were munching on pastinis and drinking their cider smoothies.

  Nick came in just after Mervyn. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Always need that extra fag or I just can’t function’.

  Glyn was still yet to reappear, having decided to be even more rebellious than Mervyn. The Wagz had all returned and were excitedly swapping stories of cars and pop stars they’d test-ridden, holidays and film stars they’d had. There was also a smiley bald man at the end of the table who hadn’t been there before. Mervyn thought he was another runner until he got a large machine out and switched it on.

  ‘Um… Hi everyone,’ said Nick, calling the meeting to order and indicating the bald man. ‘This man here is Nick. Nick Briggs. No relation…’ A polite, if bemused titter came from one of the Wagz. ‘He’s a great voice man. He does the Daleks AND the Cybermen for the new Doctor Who.’ There was an impressed ‘oooh’ from around the table. ‘And he’s doing the new voices for the Styrax for us.’

  Nick Briggs used the machine to greet everyone in his Styrax voice. There was laughter, and a scattering of applause.

  ‘Ooh, smashing, I’d love to have a go,’ said Louise.

  Nick Briggs hugged the machine close to him. ‘It takes hours to calibrate the machine to my voice. It won’t work for anyone else.’ Mervyn suspected Nick was lying.

  ‘What happened to Arthur Stokes? Didn’t he do the Styrax voices?’ Mervyn noticed Nick’s anguished face, and added hurriedly, ‘Not that what you’re doing isn’t absolutely splendid, Nick, well done. They sound like the Styrax right enough.’

  Nick glowed with pleasure. It was plain that praise from the creator of the Styrax meant a lot to him.

  ‘Arthur Stokes was unavailable,’ said Nick the producer.

  ‘Oh really? Hope he’s okay. I would have loved to meet him again. Arthur was a right old character, grumpy as hell, but always a twinkle in his eye,’ drawled Mervyn, extremely aware he was talking like an old fart, and probably boring everyone present; but after his encounter with Glyn he didn’t really care. ‘He was always hiding inside the studios with Smurf and having a crafty fag. Whenever we saw smoke pouring out of a Styrax we’d say the Styrax was giving off “Stokes signals”.’

  There were polite but indifferent chuckles from round the table. Obviously Mervyn wasn’t important enough to be humoured, but he didn’t care. He droned on. ‘He used to write all his lines on the back of his cigarette packets. Just to make a point. I wonder what he’s doing now?’

  ‘He’s in hospital,’ said Nick Briggs apologetically. ‘He’s just had a tracheotomy.’

  Oh God, thought Mervyn. Sorry I spoke.

  Nick continued. ‘I did go and see him, and he was very keen to continue. He pointed out that he sounds much more like the Styrax than he ever did and he can do the voices without the machine now… But I’m afraid his doctor won’t allow it.’

  Glyn exploded back into the room, puncturing the awkward silence and throwing mad cackles in all directions. ‘Sorry I’m late, my lovelies,’ he leered. ‘Had a bit of an altercation with the lady at the front desk. Just one more pointless argument…’

  He winked at Mervyn, and then screamed with deranged laughter.

  Everyone else laughed. Mervyn didn’t.

  Something was wrong with Glyn. It was obvious. Something had happened to his voice and his manner. Like an old tape cassette that had worn down with age, his cheeriness had distorted into a ghoulish hysteria.

  He was no longer a Cornish Russell T. Davies. He was like every actor who had ever played the Joker in Batman, taking it in turns to say a line each.

  No one mentioned it, of course. Everyone around the table just eyed him warily as he slumped into a chair and hurled his feet on the table, still tittering, wiping tears from his eyes.

  The read-through continued. Thankfully, the endless argument scenes had given way to some actual action. The Vixens were now aboard the spaceship Hyperion.

  ‘We’re completely surrounded by Styrax warships,’ read the dark-haired one.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know, Medula,’ read the blonde one.

  ‘Okay; I’ve been having an affair with three of your slaves behind your back.’

  There was a polite titter from a few people.

  ‘I said—tell me something I don’t know…!’

  More titters.

  The ugly one piped up with her line. ‘That reminds me. I haven’t got my copies yet. I ordered three vid-grams of Medula with the two big guys.’

  More titters.

  ‘They’re coming as fast as they can.’

  ‘So I keep hearing. But I haven’t seen the footage yet.’

  A big bubble of laughter. The tension was ebbing away from the room.

  Mervyn smiled; he thought it was okay. It was slightly saucier than he would have written, perhaps, but still recognisable Vixens badinage; still within the boundaries of the show, and a good introduction to the girls’ characters.

  As the scene continued, Mervyn thought the dark-haired one was definitely the best. She had real potential, she could actually act it straight off the page and sold the jokes well. The ugly one might have been good, but she had so few lines it was difficult to tell. The blonde one needed a lot of work.

  On to scene 11, interior, Styrax warship. Now it was Nick’s turn. He was ready, eyes clamped to the script, his mouth brushing the microphone. He had a hand on his controls, ready to become Styrax Sentinel #1.

  ‘SENSORS INDICATE THERE ARE PEDESTRIANS STILL ABOARD THE SHIP.’

  He lowered his voice slightly, as he became Styrax Sentinel #2.

  ‘THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN IMMOBILISED BY THE CLAMPING DRONES.’

  Then he raised his voice again. Back to Sentinel #1. Mervyn was impressed. Nick had obviously been practising.

  ‘SEND OUT ALL SENTINELS. FIND ALL PEDESTRIANS ABOARD THE SHIP AND CLAMP THEM.’ Nick paused, confused, and peered at the script. ‘HYOK, HYOK, HYOK.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ screamed Glyn, hands waving in the air. ‘What the hell are you doing? It’s not “hyok, hyok, hyok”.’

  Nick looked scared. He was obviously keen not to disappoint. ‘It’s written down on my script. “Hyok, hyok, hyok”.’

  ‘I know it is, love you, and bless your literal little mind, but “hyok, hyok, hyok”—that’s just comic-book speak for laughter. Try an insane giggle like this.’

  Glyn cackled madly, throwing his head back and howling into the air.

  Nick tried to copy him. ‘Hur, hu-hu-hu-hur.’

  ‘Hmm…not really.’

  ‘Heh-hehehehehe?’

  ‘Hurrah! That’s marvellous with a side order of fantastic, but you need to work on it a bit more, my lovely. Make it more mad. Much more mad. I’ve got some Daffy Duck cartoons in my room, I think you should watch some after the—’

  ‘I have a question,’ said Mervyn.

  Heads turned.

  The meeting went into spasm.

  Glyn suddenly became very soft and plummy. It could have been Stephen Fry, Noel Coward, or a voice-over for a sponge cake advert. It was anybody’s guess.

  ‘Oh, Mervyn, how lovely to feel your genius presence. We haven’t had a chance to do lunch y
et, have we? I know somewhere in Helston where the fish is to die for.’

  Mervyn was unnerved, but he was not to be deflected. He didn’t fire the first shot, but this was definitely war. ‘I have a question. What’s “hyok hyok hyok” when it’s at home?’

  ‘Laughter, Mervyn,’ said the new plummy Glyn. ‘The Styrax are having a jolly good giggle at the prospect of wiping out the delegation of Vixens.’

  ‘But the Styrax are robots. They don’t giggle.’

  Glyn chuckled. The Joker was back. ‘Mervyn, Mervyn, Mervyn. Wouldn’t it be great if they did? Just imagine. How sinister would it be if you had a giggling monster?’

  Mervyn looked at Glyn. Chuckling, laughing, giggling Glyn.

  ‘Well yes, I agree—having an evil monster that giggled would be terrifying. In fact,’ he said, staring pointedly into Trelawney’s eyes, ‘I can picture it right now. But it doesn’t alter the fact that they’re robots. Why not just invent a new monster that can giggle? That would be easier all round, wouldn’t it?’

  There was an awkward silence. Ken was glaring at him. Nick the producer was glaring at him. Glyn was glaring at him, arms folded. Louise was glaring at his right ear. Of the senior members of the production team, the only person who wasn’t microwaving Mervyn with his eyes was Randall. In fact, Randall looked almost amused, hiding a tiny smile with the back of his hand.

  The supporting actors looked scared. The Wagz looked confused. They sensed there was something going on that they weren’t aware of. Being clever girls in the music industry, they kept quiet and let everyone else sort themselves out.

  ‘Wouldn’t it?’ said Mervyn. ‘Be easier I mean. Create a new giggly monster.’

  Nick the producer snatched a look at his watch and leaned forward. ‘Can I just interject here, for reasons of time? Mervyn, you’ve signed a licensing agreement. We can do what we like with the Styrax and you really can’t make any objections.’

  ‘I haven’t signed anything,’ said Mervyn.

  ‘What do you mean, you haven’t signed?’

  ‘I’m very disorganised with my paperwork. Takes me weeks to get through it all. I should be better at it, but it just sits on my desk, unopened. People are always assuming I’ve signed things when I haven’t, but then they’re even more disorganised than me.’