Backstabbers - Chapter 10
The Chase Shrieked Revenge
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
‘Mountbatten’s dead. Blew him up.’
Jemima Ostridge delivered the news as she tottered through the living room, on her way upstairs to perfect her already immaculate hairdo. The local press had gathered outside in numbers, and Jemima wouldn’t dare have a hair out of place.
Stu slouched in reflection on the sofa, with the distant hiss of hairspray to break the silence. Bad news, especially the death of someone famous, was always delivered bluntly by his mum. Short ‘n sharp. Be it Elvis Presley, Bing Crosby or John Wayne, the sad news was matter-of-fact. Stu marvelled at his Mum’s performance of stoicism, bordering on blasé.
Burying emotion was how business was done in The Ostridge household, which was good training for blanking questions from his Dad like ‘So what happened to you last night, dirty stop-out?’
Stu’s Mum hadn’t said a word about Stu’s public enemy status, more upset that her son had spent the night with a girl. Even more incensed that her roast dinner had been neglected.
Once presentable, Jemima served the local press with bacon sandwiches, which baffled Stu. His Mum only made bacon sarnies as a special treat. Why wasn’t she making bacon sandwiches for him? Even his Dad drew the line at that. ‘Bloody ‘ell, Jemima! Don’t feed them!’
Thin Lizzy’s Bad Reputation machine-gunned from the mounted speakers inside Sound & Vision. Stu sought refuge on the floor behind the counter, head in hands. Alan handed down a beer to Stu. ‘Calm yer nerves.’
Stu gratefully accepted it, noting that Alan also had a beer for himself.
‘I’m edgy for you,’ said Alan.
‘I get accused of murder and suddenly Lena’s fluttering her eyelids. What if that’s the only reason she’s interested in me? Because she thinks I’m a murderer?’
Alan raised an eyebrow. ‘Take it where you can get it.’
Stu looked up at his friend with desperation. ‘Why does everyone think I killed Hilda?’
‘I never said anything,’ said Alan.
‘Didn’t say you did.’
‘It’s the way you said “everyone”. Like it might have been me.’
‘I’m not accusing you! This is not about you.’
‘Never is, is it?’
Stu’s voice raised. ‘For fffff… can we focus on the nub of the matter?’
A new voice barged into the private conversation. ‘How was she, then?’ said Gary, looking down on Stu as he handed Alan a small pile of singles. ‘Tell us all about naughty time.’
Stu shot Gary a look of how do you know?
‘Word gets around,’ shrugged Gary, as Alan took the records to Graham’s office, distancing himself from Gary’s desire for lurid details. ‘Come on. Share the fantasy.’
Stu stood up, on the defensive. ‘Nothing happened. She talked a lot. Mostly about her ex-boyfriends.’
Gary leant in. ‘Did she mention…’ Gary pointed awkwardly to himself. Stu shook his head, which seemed to disappoint Gary.
‘Maybe she was narrating the abridged version of her love life?’ said Stu with some sympathy.
‘Makes no odds to me,’ said Gary, ‘I’ve stepped aside. Can’t complain. Had my chance. I’m letting you have her. Untouched by Gary Blenny.’
‘Letting me?’ Gary. You shouldn’t really objectify women like that. It’s nineteen seventy-nine.’
‘I’m happy for ya. Who doesn’t love a happy ending?’
‘Well there’s not, is there?’ said Stu, which puzzled Gary.
Alan emerged from the office, filling in the blanks. ‘Apparently, the future Mrs Ostridge has got a lot of books on psychopaths. Which can mean only one thing, obviously…’ Alan served a customer before continuing. ‘Only a fool breaks his own heart.’
Stu scribbled in his notepad. ‘I like that. That’s nice.’
‘It’s from my new song. Squeaky Helmet,’ said Alan.
‘So she’s got a few books on psychos. Evil people are fascinating,’ said Gary. ‘Nice, boring fellas like you ain’t.’
‘Tell that to the baying mob outside my parents’ house. And the police, whilst you’re at it.’
‘Well?’ said Gary. ‘Did you kill that old battle-axe?’
Stu exhaled disbelief, looking around for some consolation. ‘Is it Have a pop at Stu day? If I’d know I would have worn my sash and crown.’
Alan answered Gary’s question. ‘He didn’t. I already asked.’
Stu grew more frantic in his bid to be convincing. ‘I’m nice. I’m nice.’
‘Nice is a biscuit,’ said Gary, proving his point by pinching a Nice biscuit from behind the till and popping it in his mouth.
Rows of chairs, half-filled with O.A.P.’s with nothing else to do for the evening. Facing the gathering were three fold-out tables with hand-written place names:
CELIA LANDAKER COUNSELOR TONY NEDWELL DR. BEDFORD BAKER
Stu sat in the back row with the two Js. Big J never missed a chance to antagonise, softly calling to Ryan Deutsch sat in front of them. ‘Ryan. Ryan. Going a bit thin on top, mate.’
Ryan didn’t turn, just flashed two sets of ‘up yours’ fingers. Lena and Emily arrived, taking their seats on the other side of the room. Excited to see Lena, Stu smiled with bright eyes but failed to elicit any kind of response from her.
A dishevelled and distracted Tony Nedwell brought the room to order, introducing the chairwoman and deputy chairman sat on either side of him.
‘Executive committee members Vivienne and Vernon Prebble will be taking minutes this evening. Honorary Treasurer is Ryan Deutsch.’ Troubled, Tony glazed over, lost in thought.
After an awkward silence, Celia took over the reins. ‘Ryan has agreed to take over the role of Honorary Secretary from Hugh Batey, due to a conflict of interests.’
Little J coughed knowingly at “conflict of interests” and what that really meant: Tony’s ex-girlfriend, Paula, and her X-rated dalliances with boozy rogue Hugh.
‘We begin with the shocking death of Hilda Harridan,’ announced Bedford.
Big J spoke under his breath. ‘Murder. Get it right.’
‘We understand Hilda had no family, so let us keep her in our prayers,’ continued Bedford. ‘Moving on, tonight’s topic is how can we salvage the reputation of Falking Hill Amateur Dramatics?’
‘What reputation?’ said Big J. ‘For most punters, Am-Dram is somewhere to keep warm for the evening,’ Celia responded, frosty at Big J’s negative attitude. ‘You appear to be alone in your cynicism, Justin.’
‘Do you miss Hilda Harridan?’ asked Big J, waiting for an honest answer. Vernon Prebble raised a hand. Bedford nodded for him to speak. ‘I believe what’s needed is a show of unity. A public statement that says we are not afraid. We will not live in fear!’
‘What about a community play?’ suggest Vivienne. ‘Get people involved. Open auditions.’
‘But that would mean every Tom, Dick and Harry having a go,’ said Celia, voice almost quivering at the thought. ‘Isn’t that the point?’ said Stu, in retaliation to Celia’s exclusivity.
The room tuned into Stu’s remark, and once more Stu regretted speaking out loud. Bedford raised a hand, having a bone to pick with Stu. ‘Excuse me. Should you even be here, given your recent arrest?’
Celia stood, jabbing a finger at the headline of The Advertiser: DRAMA: MURDERED!
‘This is what we are up against. An adjudicator is murdered, yet the press focuses on her final verdict of us. Our failure.’
Ryan piped up in his usual unimpressed manner. ‘If it’s credibility you want, stop aiming productions at the blue rinse brigade. You’re not a true thespian if you’ve not wrestled starkers on stage. I want the audience to smell us.’
‘We smelt your Othello,’ said Big J, ‘All that boot polish. The audience was treated for acute inhalation. Celia kept the topic relevant. ‘The first rule of drama: Capitalise on misery. I propose a community play. Directed by me.’
Vivienne raised a hand, attempting to interrupt. ‘I just suggested that in the meeting, if I can refer you to the minutes—-’ Vivienne’s objection went unheard, as enthusiasm whipped up.
Bedford brought the matter to a close. ‘All in favour say aye.’
The vote was reluctantly unanimous, as The Prebbles had little alternative than to raise their hands in agreement as their ideas and suggestions were snatched away by the grander personalities.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022