by Nev Fountain
Three minutes. Oh fuck a duck.
The bra finally went on, and the skirt slid up without incident.
Two minutes. Sod.
The blouse was an insane world of intricacy; cuffs to undo, sleeves to pull out… He was shaking too much from delayed shock to cope. He might as well have been asked to solve a Rubik’s Cube in less than 30 seconds. But somehow he managed it.
One minute. He could hear distant howling from across the darkened landscape; not a fearful feral beast but an even more dreaded ambulance.
Thirty seconds. He’d done it. He hoped so. He threw a shirt on and scoured the room for any tell-tale bits of evidence missed; he felt like he was covering up a murder, and the irony didn’t escape him.
*
The ambulance chugged into the hotel’s driveway, wailing and flashing and setting all the lights in the hotel ablaze, and soon the woman at the reception desk was knocking on Mervyn’s door, two paramedics looming behind her. They placed a large metal contraption on Maggie’s head that made her look part robot, part American football player, lifted her efficiently on to a stretcher and carried her down the hall, scrutinised by at least a dozen pairs of eyes.
The woman was at the door, looking around the room like a policeman with a search warrant. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. They always are.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You must have enjoyed your wine.’
‘We did, thank you.’
‘You’ve drunk the bottle as well.’
And with that crisp little comment ringing in his ears, Mervyn followed the paramedics out of the tavern.
*
Mervyn went with Maggie to the hospital. He rode in the back of an ambulance with the two paramedics, who grinned at him in a conspiratorial way.
‘Badger, eh?’ said one.
Mervyn didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded.
‘It’s always the bloody badger,’ said the other.
‘Bigger passion-killer than socks with suspenders.’
Mervyn wanted to defend his and Maggie’s honour. He stuck to his official story. ‘We were just sharing a glass of wine on the bed when it fell down and hit her on the head.’
The paramedics didn’t believe him for a second.
‘Don’t worry she’ll be right as rain. They usually are.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Mervyn uncomfortably.
‘They’re all right. It’s the collateral damage that causes the most grief.’
‘Oh yes. Collateral damage.’
‘One woman got knocked on the head at a vital moment.’
‘Very vital.’
‘She almost bit it off.’
‘Very nasty.’
Mervyn crossed his legs.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The rest of the journey was conducted in relative silence. Maggie seemed to wake-up at one point and ordered a dry Martini in an American accent, but the paramedics assured Mervyn that she was still under and just talking in her sleep. Mervyn hoped she wasn’t going to say anything about the events that brought them both screaming towards casualty.
Maggie was whisked into the bowels of the hospital while Mervyn was left in a corridor with just a Polish woman prone to tearful histrionics and two angry tramps for company.
This is the second time in six hours I’ve ended up inside this hospital, he thought.
An hour later and he was desperate to talk to anyone who spoke English. It occurred to him to see if he could find Randall.
He wandered up and down, his footsteps sounding incredibly loud in the empty corridors. Randall wasn’t where Mervyn had left him, but after a process of elimination (twitching open the curtains on several grey-faced old men snoring in their beds) he discovered that Product Lazarus had found him a private room; a large impersonal space with cream curtains and a photo of a sunrise on the wall. At least, he assumed it was a sunrise; a sunset would seem tasteless.
Randall’s face was as white as his blankets, his eyes were pink and watery. He was awake, staring at a television. His pretty green tie was curled up neatly and placed on his bedside table, alongside his watch and cufflinks.
‘Hi Randall.’
‘Hey Merv,’ he croaked. He switched the television to mute. ‘What brings you here at this hour? Does Ken want you to wheel me out for a night shoot?’
‘Nothing so dramatic. A friend of mine has been injured and I’m just waiting for the verdict from the doctor.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Merv.’
‘So… How are you doing?’
Randall shrugged. ‘Not bad. The doctors seem nice, and I’m reasonably certain the nurse who changes my bandage doesn’t wear any panties. Thank the Lord for socialised medicine.’ He gestured to his bedside table. ‘I’d offer you some fruit, but some little bastard came around and confiscated it because they were worried about germs. Shit. They’ve got a Burger King by reception and they’re worried about dangerous fruit! The world’s gone completely nuts. Or I’ve gone completely nuts and the docs haven’t bothered to tell me.’
‘How’s the shoulder?
‘Good. Just a flesh wound, thank God. So glad I didn’t get shot in the gut. I consult my gut about all my major decisions. I wouldn’t know what to do with a damaged one.’
‘Very lucky.’
‘Even luckier—the doctors in this hospital are about the most expert in treating gunshot wounds outside the US. Of course, they mainly treat hikers.’
He sighed, and clicked off the television. ‘I feel like such an asshole, letting Graham on set like that. What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?’
‘Well… Look at it this way. If it wasn’t for Graham distracting the Gorg we probably would have all got shot.’
‘Thank you for that observation, my little morale-booster,’ snapped Randall. ‘That cosy thought will keep my mind off the ruins of my career and the oozing hole in my shoulder.’
‘Sorry.’
They sat without talking, the silence punctuated only by the sound of nurses passing in the corridor outside the door and the rattle of medicine trolleys.
Finally, Mervyn said ‘There’ve been two more attempts on my life since the incident at the supermarket.’
‘What?’
‘Someone poisoned my sandwiches at Trebah Gardens, and then I was lured to Graham’s place so I could be torn apart by angry dogs.’
‘Don’t do this to me, Merv. Please don’t say this stuff. I can’t cope with your shit on top of everything else.’
‘I wish it wasn’t so, but I’m telling the truth. He told me himself.’
‘Who told you himself?’
‘Ken Roche. He mentioned me “staring death in the face three times.” He knew how many attempts there’d been on my life.’
Randall sighed and sank back into his pillow. ‘Mervyn, he’s an asshole. He’s just winding you up. He hates you, so he’s playing mind games with you.’
‘I don’t think so. I’m convinced he’s trying to kill me. I’m going to the police with what I know tomorrow morning.’
‘The fuck you are. You’re not going to the cops—they’ll be all over us, and we’ll never finish this damn show. I’ve come this far with this shitty project. I’m not gonna let you close us down.’
‘He tried to kill me!’
‘So you say.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Look Merv, I’ll do a deal with you. I’m gonna send Ken home anyway. He’s fucking useless. He won’t be able to do anything to you once he’s back in London.’
‘I suppose… But…’
‘We get him out the way, finish the shoot—just a couple more days—then you can talk to the cops, and they can lock him up and throw away the fucking key for all I care.’
‘Okay. It’s a deal.’
‘Great. Wonderful. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. Now get lost and let me get some shut-eye.’
Randall thrust his head in his pillow and closed his eyes. He instantly
fell asleep, the breath escaping from his mouth in a slow peaceful hiss.
Much reassured, Mervyn went back to wait for news about Maggie.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
He stayed in the waiting room for another 45 minutes, reading the signs about heart conditions and breast screenings. So he was doubly relieved when a nurse came up and told him that yes, Maggie was okay, that there was no physical damage, she was just suffering from concussion, she’d probably be ready to see him soon.
Mervyn kept waiting but he needed to feel useful, so he asked reception for a Yellow Pages and looked through it to find the number of Maggie’s mother’s nursing home. He thought he’d try to make amends in a small way, and tell the home about Maggie’s accident. They might be waiting for Maggie to call to confirm funeral arrangements.
Millpond Retirement Cottages, that’s where she said her mother was. He found the address and number—it was only a couple of miles from the hospital. That made sense. He went outside, waving his mobile phone around like a Geiger counter. He squeezed a signal out of the night sky and dialled the number.
‘Hello, is that Millpond Retirement Cottages?’
‘Yes it is. Hello.’
‘Hello, yes, I’m calling on behalf of a friend. Maggie Rollins. She’s had an accident. Her mother was a resident of yours. Apparently she died today.’
‘Oh dear. A daughter of one our residents died today? That will be upsetting.’
‘No, sorry, I’m not making myself clear. Maggie’s had the accident, but she’s not dead, just concussed. It was her mother who died today. She was one of the residents in your home.’
‘No. Sorry. You’re mistaken, I’m glad to say no one has passed away here in months.’
‘Really? Are you quite sure?’
‘Well, I can never be absolutely sure; it’s an inexact science. But unless the duty nurse sounds the alarm in the next few seconds, then I’m pretty certain we’ve not lost anyone recently. What did you say her name was?’
‘Maggie Rollins.’
‘Rollins… I don’t recognise the name. Are you sure her mother was here?’
‘I saw Maggie go into your place just a few days ago. This is the Millpond Retirement Cottages on Tregower Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait. I remember her mother’s name. Mavis. She’s Mavis Rollins.’
‘I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone of that name.’
Mervyn went back into the hospital, his mind groping for a plausible explanation for what he’d learned. He couldn’t find one. He didn’t know what to do. The nurse came up to him and told him that Maggie was still unconscious, but comfortable, and could he come back tomorrow?
He left. He got a cab and was heading back to the Black Prince, but he knew he couldn’t leave it like that this. On an impulse, he asked the driver to head to the outskirts of Falmouth. Soon he was standing in the foyer of Millpond Retirement Cottages, looking around him. Looking baffled.
An old woman in a dressing gown made her way slowly over to him, big furry slippers gliding across the lino.
‘Are you all right, sweetheart? Are you lost?’
Mervyn stared at her blankly. ‘What?’
‘I can get Jenny. She can take you back to your room, sweetheart.’
‘No it’s all right…’ He shook his head, recovering his wits. ‘Don’t worry about me…’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite know why I’m here.’
‘That goes for most of us, sweetheart.’
Mervyn was on the point of leaving, but then hovered agonisingly in the doorway. He came to a decision. ‘Can I take-up a bit of your time, please? I only need a minute.’
‘I think I can just about spare a minute, sweetheart, I can fit you into my busy schedule…’
Mervyn produced his digital camera and bleeped through the recent photos. But he couldn’t find any of Maggie. Where had they gone? She’d deleted them, of course. Double chins and all. Thank heavens he’d taken a sly extra one of her when she wasn’t looking, and saved it in his favourites. He bleeped the camera until he found it.
‘Do you recognise this woman?’
The old woman’s face exploded into a thousand wrinkles as she grinned. ‘Of course I do. That’s my daughter.’
‘Seriously? She’s your daughter?’
‘Oh yes. She was here just yesterday with a big bunch of flowers. She never misses a day.’
‘Kath, what are you doing up?’
A stout woman in an ugly uniform was standing by the front desk, hands on hips, looking concerned.
‘I was helping this man, Jenny. He’s lost my daughter.’
‘Has he indeed.’ Jenny took the old woman firmly by the arm. ‘Well, he can find her without your help. You should have been in bed hours ago.’
Mervyn followed them. ‘I’m sorry. Can I talk to you?’
‘Visiting time was six hours ago. Unless it’s a matter of life and death, then no.’
‘It is actually. This woman’s daughter has been involved in an accident.’
‘What?’
‘I said…’
‘Shh!’ she angrily thrust her finger against her lips. ‘Come on Kath, here we are, home sweet home…’ They reached Kath’s room—which was more a hospital bed with a few faded wedding pictures on a side table than ‘home sweet home’—and went inside. Jenny closed the door on Mervyn, mouthing ‘five minutes’ at him before it clicked shut.
Mervyn waited outside, in an agony of anticipation, listening to Kath being put to bed. Finally the door opened. The room inside was dark.
‘Okay,’ said Jenny. ‘What’s your problem? Why are you trying to upset Kath?’
‘It’s true,’ said Mervyn. ‘I don’t know why but she pretended she was dead.’
‘Who pretended who was dead?’
‘Maggie pretended her mother was dead. And that she was called Mavis. Anyway, Maggie’s had an accident, but she’s fine. Tell Kath she’s just had a knock on the head and she’ll be okay.’
‘I’ll do no such thing.’
‘She would want to know her daughter was all right.’
‘Kath doesn’t have a daughter.’
‘Yes she does. I showed her this photo. She recognised her daughter.’
‘If you showed her a picture of the Mona Lisa Kath would say it was her daughter. That’s what she does. It’s called old age. But Kath has never had children of any kind.’
‘But… Maggie had her mother here. She came in here and visited her mother. I watched her.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Let me see that picture.’
She looked at the screen of Mervyn’s camera. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yes. I recognise her. She walked in a couple of days ago, hung around the entrance. I asked her if I could help, but she just shook her head. She stayed there for a few minutes looking out the window and then she left.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
The following morning, the senior production staff were all phoned at their hotels, digs and rented cottages and asked by Randall to come in for an emergency meeting.
When Mervyn found the message waiting for him at the front desk of the tavern he assumed that Randall had decided to cancel the whole shoot, or at the very least suspend filming because of what had come to light about Ken.
To his surprise, new scripts (coloured orange) were waiting on the table. Louise was there, as was Nick. Ken was there too. None of them seemed the worse for wear after their ordeal yesterday. Ken was looking through the script, his face drained of colour. ‘It’s all changed. It’s all different. It’s all changed.’
Randall walked in, holding himself surprisingly well considering he’d taken a bullet only the previous day. He wasn’t even using a sling. He was wearing a different jacket as his earlier one had been ruined; this one was a slightly darker grey. It looked like it didn’t fit him quite as well, but then Mervyn realised he’d got padding on his shoulder where the bullet had struck.
Mervyn mouthed ‘When?’ to Randall. Randal
l mouthed ‘After lunch’ to Mervyn, and gave him a reassuring wink.
Louise was angry. ‘What’s going on Randall?’
Randall straightened his tie. ‘Glyn rang me last night. He wants to incorporate the rewrites he did yesterday into the final script, and I’ve agreed.’
‘The rewrites he made yesterday? The ones he did while being held at gunpoint by a lunatic?’ spluttered Louise. She was being bypassed again and the fury was apparent in her voice.
‘I’m serious. Glyn discussed the changes with me, and they all sound good.’
‘This is ridiculous. I should have been consulted.’
‘That’s why you’re here, Louise. To go through them with all of us here. There’s the script in front of you.’ He flapped his own script like a flick-book. ‘Orange—my favourite colour.’
‘This is really irregular, Randall; what about this morning’s filming? It’s just not the way to do things.’
‘Bryony is more than capable of handling it this morning, and it’s good for her to do it on her own.’ Mervyn guessed there was an unspoken clause after that which went: because she’s going to be doing a hell of a lot more filming on her own after I sack Ken.
‘And,’ Randall continued, ‘it may have escaped your attention, Louise, but I’ve just been shot. In the circumstances, I feel like being a bit irregular.’
Louise fixed the water jug with an angry stare.
‘I’m sure Glyn has his reasons,’ Nick blurted. ‘After all, if it improves the final product…’
Product. Project. When did TV people get scared of the word ‘programme’? thought Mervyn.
‘Oh shut up Nick. Is there anything he’d dream up that wouldn’t get your cringing support? If he asked you to throw yourself under a bus, would you do it? If he said it was in the interests of the show for you to jump off the building, would you go for it?’ said Louise.
Nick stuck his bottom lip out and played with his water glass.
Louise sighed. ‘Fuck it.’ She took out a small tub, popped open the lid and threw a couple of white capsules down her throat. Mervyn thought they were chewing gum, but she didn’t chew. She just took a swig of water.